Who came on purpose, Sir, to borrow
Our Venus, for the feast to-morrow,
To grace the church; 'tis Venus' day;
I hope, Sir, you intend to stay,
To see our Venus; 'tis the piece
The most renown'd throughout all Greece,
So like th' original, they say:
But I have no great skill that way.
But, Sir, at six, ('tis now past three),
Dromo must make my master's tea:
At six, Sir, if you please, to come,
You'll find my master, Sir, at home.
Tea, says a critic, big with laughter,
Was found some twenty ages after:
Authors, before they write, should read,
Tis very true; but we'll proceed.
And, Sir, at present would you please To leave your name-fair maiden, yes:
Reach me that board. No sooner spoke,
But done. With one judicious stroke,
On the plain ground Apelles drew
A circle regularly true;
And will you, please sweetheart, said he,
To shew your master this from me?
By it he presently will know,
How painters write their names at Co.
He gave the pannel to the maid.
Smiling and curt'sing, Sir, she said,
I shall not fail to tell my master;
And, Sir, for fear of all disaster,
I'll keep it my own self; safe bind,
Says the old proverb, and safe find;
So, Sir, as sure as key and lock-
Your servant, Sir, at six o'clock.
Again at six, Apelles came;
Found the same prating civil dame,
Sir, that my master has been here,
Will by the board itself appear.
If from the perfect line he found,
He has presum'd to swell the round,
Or colors on the draught to lay;
"Tis thus, (he ordered me to say),
Thus write the painters of this isle:
Let those of Co remark the style.
She said; and to his hand restor❜d
The rival pledge, the missive board,
Upon the happy line were laid.
Such obvious light, and easie shade;
That Paris' apple stood confest,
Or Leda's eggs, or Cloe's breast.
Apelles view'd the finished piece;
And live, said he, the arts of Greece!
How'er Protogenes and I
May in our rival talents vie;
How'er our works may have express'd,
Who truest drew, or color'd best;
When he beheld my flowing line;
He found at least, I could design;
And from his artful round I grant,
That he with perfect skill can paint;
The dullest genius cannot fail
To find the moral of my tale :
That the distinguish'd parts of men,
With compass, pencil, sword, or pen,
Should in life's visit leave their name,
In characters, which may proclaim,
That they with ardour strove to raise
At once their arts, and country's praise;
And in their working took great care,
That all was full, and round, and fair.-Prior.
And all the men and women merely players;
They have their exits, and their entrances:
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages. At first the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms;
And then, the whining school-boy, with his satchel,
And shining morning face, creeping like a snail
Unwillingly to school; and then, the lover;
Sighing like a furnace, with woeful ballad
Made to his mistress' eye-brow: then, a soldier;
Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard;
Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the cannon's mouth; and then, the justice;
In fair round belly, with good capon lined,
With eyes severe, and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws and modern instances,
And so he plays his part; the sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slipper'd pantaloon;
With spectacles on nose, and pouch on side;
His youthful hose well saved, a world too wide
For his shrunk shank: and his big manly voice,
Turning again toward childish treble pipes
And whistles in his sound: last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness, and mere oblivion;
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.—Shakspeare.
DESERTED VILLAGE.
Sweet smiling village, lov'liest of the lawn;
Thy sports are fled, and all thy charms withdrawn ;
Amidst thy bow'rs the tyrant's hand is seen,
And desolation saddens all thy green :
One only master grasps the whole domain,
And half a tillage stints thy smiling plain;
No more thy glassy brook reflects the day,
But chok'd with sedges works its weedy way;
Along thy glades, a solitary guest,
The hollow sounding bittern guards its nest,
Amidst thy desert walks the lapwing flies,
And tires their echoes with unvaried cries;
Sunk are thy bow'rs in shapeless ruin all,
And the long grass o'ertops the mouldering wall;
And, trembling, shrinking from the spoiler's hand,
Far, far away thy children leave the land.
Ill fares the land, to hastening ills a prey,
Where wealth accumulates, and men decay;
Princes and lords may flourish, or may fade;
A breath can make them, as a breath has made:
But a bold peasantry, their country's pride,
When once destroyed, can never be supplied.
-A time there was, ere England's griefs began,
When every rood of ground maintained its man;
For him light labour spread her wholesome store,
Just gave what life requir'd, but gave no more:
His best companions, innocence and health;
And his best riches, ignorance of wealth.
But times are alter'd; trade's unfeeling train
Usurp the land, and dispossess the swain;
Along the lawn, where scatter'd hamlets rose,
Unwieldy wealth and cumbrous pomp repose;
And every want to luxury allied,
And every pang that folly pays to pride.
Those gentle hours that plenty bade to bloom,
Those calm desires that ask'd but little room;
Those healthful sports that grac'd the peaceful scene,
Liv'd in each look, and brighten'd all the green :
These, far departing, seek a kinder shore,
And rural mirth and manners are no more.-Goldsmith.
KING HENRY IV. UPON MISSING THE CROWN.
Thy wish was father, Harry, to that thought;
I stay too long by thee, I weary thee.
Dost thou so hunger for my empty chair,
That thou wilt needs invest thee with mine honours
Before thy hour be ripe? O foolish youth!
Thou seek'st the greatness that will overwhelm thee;
Stay but a little; for my cloud of dignity
Is held from falling with so weak a wind,
That it will quickly drop: my day is dim;
Thou hast stolen that, which, after some few hours,
Were thine without offence; and, at my death,
Thou hast sealed up my expectation;
Thy life did manifest, thou lov'dst me not,
And thou wilt have me die assured of it.
Thou hid'st a thousand daggers in thy thoughts,
Which thou hast whetted on the stony heart,
To stab at half an hour of my life.
What! canst thou not forbear me half an hour?
Then get thee gone; and dig my grave thyself;
And bid the merry bells ring to thine ear,
That thou art crown'd, not that I am dead.
Let all the tears that should bedew my hearse,
Be drops of balm, to sanctify thy head,
Only compound me with forgotten dust;
Give that, which gave thee life, unto the worms.
Pluck down my officers, break my decrees,
For now a time is come to mock at form,
Harry the Fifth is crown'd;-Up, vanity!
Down royal state! All you sage counsellors, bence!
And to the English court assemble now,
From every region, apes of idleness!
Now, neighbour confines, purge you of your scum;
Have you a ruffian, that will swear, drink, dance,
Revel the night; rob, murder, and commit
The oldest sins the newest kind of ways?
Be happy, he will trouble you no more;
England shall double gild his treble guilt;
England shall give him office, honour, might,
For the Fifth Harry from curb'd licence plucks
The muzzle of restraint, and the wild dog
Shall flesh his teeth in every innocent.
O my poor kingdom, sick with civil blows!
When that my care could not withhold thy riots,
What wilt thou do, when riot is thy care?
O, thou wilt be a wilderness again,
Peopled with wolves, thy old inhabitants.—Shakspeare.
PRINCE HENRY'S REPLY.
O pardon me, my liege! but for my tears,
The moist impediments unto my speech,
I had forestall'd this dear and deep rebuke,
Ere you with grief had spoke, and I had heard
The course of it so far. There is your crown;
And He that wears the crown immortally.
Long guard it yours! If I affect it more,
Than as your honor, and as your renown,
Let me no more from this obedience rise,
(Which my most true and inward-duteous spirit
Teacheth,) this prostrate and exterior bending!
Heaven witness with me, when I here came in,
And found no course of breath within your majesty,
How cold it struck my heart! If I do feign,
O, let me in my present wildness die ;
And never live to show the incredulous world
The noble change that I have purposed!
Coming to look on you, thinking you dead,
(And dead almost, my liege, to think you were,)
I spake unto the crown, as having sense,
And thus upbraided it. The care on the depending,
Hath fed upon the body of my father;
Therefore, thou, best of gold, and worst of gold.
Other, less fine in caret, is more precious,
Preserving life in med'cine potable;
But thou, most fine, most honored, most renowned,
Hast eat thy bearer up. Thus, my most royal liege,
Accusing it, I put it on my head;
To try with it, as with an enemy,
That had before my face murder'd
The quarrel of a true inheritor.
But if it did infect my blood with joy,
Or swell my thoughts to any strain of pride,
If any rebel or vain spirit of mine
Did, with the least affection of a welcome,
Give entertainment to the might of it,
Let God for ever keep it from my head!
And make me as the poorest vassal is,
That doth with awe and terror kneel to it!-Shakspeare.
ON THE VANITY OF HUMAN WISHES.
Unnumber'd suppliants crowd Preferment's gate,
Athirst for wealth, and burning to be great;
Delusive fortune hears th' incessant call,
They mount, they shine, evaporate, and fall.
On every stage the foes of peace attend,
Hate dogs their flight, and insult mocks their end.
Love ends with hope, the sinking statesman's door
Pours in the morning worshipper no more;
For growing names the weekly scribbler lies,
To growing wealth the dedicator flies;
From every room descends the painted face,
That hung the bright Palladium of the place,
And smok'd in kitchens, or in auctions sold,
To better features yields the frame of gold;
For now no more we trace in every line
Heroic worth, benevolence divine:
The form distorted justifies the fall,
And detestation rids th' indignant wall.
In full-blown dignity, see Wolsey stand,
Law in his voice, and fortune in his hand;
To him the church, the realm, their pow'rs consign,
Through him the rays of regal bounty shine,
Still to new heights his restless wishes tow'r,
Claim leads to claim, and pow'r advances pow'r;
'Till conquest, unresisted, ceas'd to please,
And rights submitted, left him none to seize.
At length his Sovereign frowns-the train of state
Mark the keen glance, and watch the sign to hate.
Where'er he turns he meets a stranger's eye,
His suppliants scorn him, and his followers fly;
At once is lost, the pride of awful state,
The golden canopy, the glittering plate,
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