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His sermon never said or showed
That earth is foul, that heaven is gracious, Without refreshment on the road,
From Jerome or from Athanasius ; And sure a righteous zeal inspired The hand and head that penned and planned
them, For all who understood admired,
And some who did not understand them
Where is the old man laid ? Look dowr
And construe on the slab before you, “Hic jacet Gulielmus Brown, Vir nulla non donandus lauro."
WINTHROF MACKWORTH PRAED
He wrote too, in a quiet way,
Small treatises, and smaller verses, And sage remarks on chalk and clay,
And hints to noble lords and nurses ; True histories of last year's ghost;
Lines to a ringlet or a turban ;
And nothings for Sylvanus Urban.
A Hungry lean-faced villain,
He did not think all mischief fair,
Although he had a knack of joking; He did not make himself a bear,
Although he had a taste for smoking; And when religious sects ran mad,
He held, in spite of all his learning, That if a man's belief is bad,
It will not be improved by burning.
And he was kind, and loved to sit
In the low hut or garnished cottage, And praise the farmer's homely wit,
And share the widow's homelier pottage. At his approach complaint grew mild,
And when his hand unbarred the shutter The clammy lips of fever smiled
The welcome that they could not utter.
FROM "MERCHANT OF VENICE"
I'll hold thee any wager, When we are both accoutred like young men, I'll prove the prettier fellow of the two, And wear my dagger with the braver grace; And speak between the change of man and boy, With a reed voice ; and turn two mincing steps Into a manly stride ; and speak of frays, Like a fine bragging youth ; and tell quaint lies, How honorable ladies sought my love, Which I denying, they fell sick and died, I could not do withal ; – then I'll repent, And wish, for all that, that I had not killed them : And twenty of these puny lies I 'll tell ; That men shall swear I have discontinued school Above a twelvemonth : I have within my mind | A thousand raw tricks of these bragging Jacks, Which I will practise.
He always had a tale for me
Of Julius Cæsar or of Venus ;
Cat’s-cradle, leap-frog, and Quæ genus. I used to singe his powdered wig,
To steal the staff he put such trust in, And make the puppy dance a jig
When he began to quote Augustine.
Alack, the change! In vain I look
For haunts in which my boyhood trifled ; The level lawn, the trickling brook,
The trees I climbed, the beds I rifled ! The church is larger than before,
You reach it by a carriage entry; It holds three hundred people more,
And pews are fitted for the gentry.
THE TOILET. FROM "THE RAPE OF THE LOCK.” AND now, unveiled, the toilet stands displayed, Each silver vase in mystic order laid. First, robed in white, the nymph intent adores, With head uncovered, the cosmetic powers. A heavenly image in the glass appears, To that she bends, to that her eyes she rears; The inferior priestess, at her altar's side Trembling begins the sacred rites of pride. Unnumbered treasures ope at once, and here | The various offerings of the world appear ;
Sit in the vicar's seat ; you ʼll hear
The doctrine of a gentle Johnian, Whose hand is white, whose voice is clear,
Whose tone is very Ciceronian.
From each she nicely culls with curious toil, Serenely full, the epicure would say,
THE PEDLER'S PACK.
FROM “THE WINTER's Tale."
Enter AUTOLYCUS, singing. The fair each moment rises in her charms,
Lawn as white as driven snow; Repairs her smiles, awakens every grace,
Cyprus black as e'er was crow; And calls forth all the wonders of her face;
Gloves as sweet as damask roses; Sees by degrees a purer blush arise,
Masks for faces and for noses; And keener lightnings quicken in her eyes.
Bugle bracelet, necklace-amber, The busy sylphs surround their darling care,
Perfume for a lady's chamber : These set the head, and those divide the hair,
Golden quoifs and stomachers, Some fold the sleeve, whilst others plait the gown;
For my lads to give their dears;
Pins and poking-sticks of steel,
What maids lack from head to heel :
Buy, lads, or else your lasses cry:
SHAKESPEARE. To make this condiment your poet begs The pounded yellow of two hard-boiled eggs; Two boiled potatoes, passed through kitchen sieve, Smoothness and softness to the salad give;
TROCHEE trips from long to short;
From long to long in solemn sort
Slow Spondee stalks ; strong foot ! yet ill able Distrust the condiment that bites so soon ;
Ever to come up with Dactyl trisyllable. But deem it not, thou man of herbs, a fault
lambics march from short to long ;To add a double quantity of salt;
With a leap and a bound the swift Anapæsts Four times the spoon with oil from Lucca crown,
throng; And twice with vinegar, procured from town;
One syllable long, with one short at each side, And lastly, o'er the flavored compound toss
Amphibrachys hastes with a stately stride ;A magic soupçon of anchovy sauce.
First and last being long, middle short, AmphiO green and glorious ! O herbaceous treat!
macer 'T would tempt the dying anchorite to eat ;
Strikes his thundering hoofs like a proud highBack to the world he'd turn his fleeting soul,
bred racer. And plunge his fingers in the salad-bowl;
SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE,
I was soar this! Euch hour that came
Stith incremitting, hought.
m Silmre &
I wish but what I have at will ;
In greatest stormes I sitte on shore, And laugh at them that toile in vaine To get what must be lost againe.
I kisse not where I wish to kill ;
I feigne not love where most I hate ; I breake no sleepe to winne my will ;
I wayte not at the mightie's gate.
Content I live; this is my stay,
I seek no more than may suffice.
Look, what I lack my mind supplies.
And hastie clymbers soonest fall; I see that such as sit aloft
Mishap doth threaten most of all.. These get with toile, and keepe with feare ; Such cares my mind could never beare. No princely pompe nor welthie store,
No force to win the victorie, No wylie wit to salve a sore,
No shape to winne a lover's eye, – To none of these I yeeld as thrall; For why, my mind despiseth all. Some have too much, yet still they crave; · I little have, yet seek no more.
The court pe cart I like ne loath,
Extreames are counted worst of all; The golden meane betwixt them both
Doth surest sit, and feares no fall; This is my choyce ; for why, I finde No wealth is like a quiet minde.
My wealth is health and perfect ease ;
My conscience clere my chiefe defence; I never seeke by bribes to please,
Nor by desert to give offence. Thus do I live, thus will I die ; Would all did so as well as I !