jellies and sweetmeats. This, I say, is the state of ordinary women: though I know there are multitudes of those of a more elevated life and conversation, that move in an exalted sphere of knowledge and virtue, that join all the beauties of the mind to the ornaments of dress, and inspire a kind of awe and respect, as well as love, into their male beholders. I hope to increase the number of them by publishing this daily paper, which I shall always endeavour to make an innocent if not an improving entertainment, and by that means at least divert the minds of my female readers from greater trifles. At the same time, as I would fain give some finishing touches to those which are already the most beautiful pieces in human nature, I shall endeavour to point out all those imperfections that are blemishes, as well as those virtues which are the embellishments, of the sex. In the meanwhile I hope these, my gentle readers, who have so much time on their hands, will not grudge throwing away a quarter of an hour in a day on this paper, since they may do it without any hindrance to business.

I know several of my friends and well-wishers are in great pain for me, lest I should not be able to keep up the spirit of a paper which I oblige myself to furnish every day; but to make them easy in this particular, I will promise them faithfully to give it over as soon as I grow dull. This I know will be matter of great raillery to the small wits; who will frequently put me in mind of my

promise, desire me to keep my word, assure me that it is high time to give over, with many other little pleasantries of the like nature, which men of a little smart genius cannot forbear throwing out against their best friends, when they have such a handle given them of being witty. But let them remember that I do hereby enter my caveat against this piece of raillery.

Sonnets cxxviii., cxxx.

Joseph Addison.

OW oft, when thou, my music, music play'st,

HOW

Upon that blessed wood whose motion sounds With thy sweet fingers, when thou gently sway'st The wiry concord that mine ear confounds,

Do I envy those jacks that nimble leap
To kiss the tender inward of thy hand,

Whilst my poor lips, which should that harvest reap,
At the wood's boldness by thee blushing stand!
To be so tickled, they would change their state
And situation with those dancing chips,
O'er whom thy fingers walk with gentle gait,
Making dead wood more bless'd than living lips.
Since saucy jacks so happy are in this,

Give them thy fingers, me thy lips to kiss.

My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red than her lips' red:
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun ;
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.

I have seen roses damask'd, red and white,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks;
And in some perfumes is there more delight
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
I love to hear her speak,—yet well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing sound :
I grant I never saw a goddess go,—

My mistress when she walks, treads on the ground;
And yet, by Heaven, I think my love as rare
As any she belied with false compare.
W. Shakspere.

Siren Chorus

From The Sea Bride)

TROOP home to silent grots and caves,
Troop home and mimic as you go

The mournful winding of the waves,
Which to their dark abysses flow.

At this sweet hour all things beside
In amorous pairs to covert creep,
The swans that brush the evening tide
Homeward in snowy couples keep.

In his green den the murmuring seal
Close by his sleek companion lies,
While singly we to bedward steal,
And close in fruitless sleep our eyes.

In bowers of love men take their rest,
In loveless bowers we sigh alone,
With bosom-friends are others blest,

But we have none-but we have none.

George Darley.

Song

(From Orlando Gibbons' first set of Madrigals, 1612)

FAIR is the rose, yet fades with heat or cold;

Sweet are the violets, yet soon grown old:

The lily's white, yet in one day 'tis done ;
White is the snow, yet melts against the sun :
So white, so sweet was my fair mistress' face,
Yet altered quite in one short hour's space :
So short-lived beauty a vain gloss doth borrow,
Breathing delight to-day, but none to-morrow.

(From Comus)

THE star that bids the shepherd fold
Now the top of heaven doth hold;

And the gilded car of day

His glowing axle doth allay
In the steep Atlantic stream:

And the slope sun his upward beam

Shoots against the dusky pole,
Pacing toward the other goal
Of his chamber in the east.

Meanwhile, welcome joy and feast,

Anon.

Midnight shout and revelry,
Tipsy dance and jollity.

Braid your locks with rosy twine,
Dropping odours, dropping wine.
Rigour now has gone to bed;
And Advice with scrupulous head,
Strict Age and sour Severity,

With their grave saws in slumber lie.
We, that are of purer fire,
Imitate the starry quire,

Who, in their knightly watchful spheres,
Lead in swift round the months and years.

The sounds and seas, with all their finny drove,
Now to the moon in wavering morrice move;
And on the tawny sands and shelves
Trip the pert fairies and the dapper elves.
By dimpled brook and fountain brim,
The wood-nymphs, decked with daisies trim,
Their merry wakes and pastimes keep :
What hath night to do with sleep?

Night hath better sweets to prove,
Venus now wakes, and wakens Love.
Come, let us our rites begin ;

'Tis only daylight that makes sin,
Which these dun shades will ne'er report.
Hail, goddess of nocturnal sport,

Dark-veiled Cotytto, to whom the secret flame
Of midnight torches burns! mysterious dame,
That ne'er art called but when the dragon-womb
Of Stygian darkness spets her thickest gloom,
And makes one blot of all the air!