We both love never to speak evil,
We both love pleasant talk that's civil,
We both love being in those places
Where rarely venture saddened faces,
We both love merry music's measure,
We both in books find frequent pleasure.
What more is there? Just this to sing
I'll dare: in almost everything
Alike we are, save hearts; - for thine
Is much more hard, alas! than mine.
Beseech thee now this rock demolish,
Yet not thy sweeter parts abolish.
TO THE QUEEN OF NAVARRE.
MOURN for the dead, let who will for them mourn;-
But while I live, my heart is most forlorn
For those whose night of sorrow sees no dawn
On this earth.
O Flower of France whom at the first I served, Those thou hast freed from pain that them unnerved Have given pain to thee, ah! undeserved,
Of ingrates thou hast sadly made full test;
But since I left thee (bound by stern behest),
Not leaving thee, full humbly I've addrest
A princess.
Who has a heart that does not sorrow less
Than thine. Ah God! shall I ne'er know mistress,
Before I die, whose eye on sad distress
Is not my Muse as fit and apt to invent
A song of peace that would bring full content
As chant the bitterness of this torment
Ah! listen, Margaret, to the suffering
That in the heart of Renée plants its sting;
Then, sister-like, than hope more comforting,
Console her.
THE NEW YORK PUBLIC LIBRARY
*OR, LINJY AND iN FOUNDATIONS
FROM A LETTER TO THE KING; AFTER BEING ROBBED.
I HAD of late a Gascon serving-man :
A monstrous liar, glutton, drunkard, both,
A trickster, thief, and every word an oath,—
The rope almost around his neck, you see,-
But otherwise the best of fellows he.
This very estimable youngster knew
Of certain money given me by you:
A mighty swelling in my purse he spied;
Rose earlier than usual, and hied
To take it deftly, giving no alarm,
And tucked it snugly underneath his arm,
Money and all, of course, and it is plain
'T was not to give it back to me again,
For never have I seen it, to this day.
But still the rascal would not run away
For such a trifling bagatelle as that,
So also took cloak, trousers, cape, and hat,
In short, of all my clothes the very best,-
And then himself so finely in them dressed
That to behold him, e'en by light of day,
It was his master surely, you would say.
He left my chamber finally, and flew
Straight to the stable, where were horses two;
Left me the worst, and mounted on the best,
His charger spurred, and bolted; for the rest,
You may be sure that nothing he omitted,
Save bidding me good-by, before he quitted.
So-ticklish round the throat, to say the truth,
But looking like St. George this hopeful youth
Rode off, and left his master sleeping sound,
Who waking, not a blessed penny found.
This master was myself,
- the very one,—
And quite dumbfounded to be thus undone;
To find myself without a decent suit,
And vexed enough to lose my horse, to boot.
But for the money you had given me,
The losing it ought no surprise to be;
For, as your gracious Highness understands,
Your money, Sire, is ever changing hands.
MASTER ABBOT AND HIS SERVANT-MAN.
THE Abbot's man and he, the man of God,
In silly laughs and moistening of the clod
Seem as each were the other one's twin brother
In short, two peas resembling one another.
And yet last night the well-matched pair fell out.
You wonder what it could have been about?
With a deep sigh the pious prior said:
"At night put the big wine-jug near my bed,
I fear I should expire were I left dry."
To which fat flunky dared to make reply:
"And you want me to lie all night bereft
Of balmy sleep? You know I get what's left
In that big jug. I'm loath to see you die;
But yet expire. For lose my sleep not I."
PREPARATION FOR MATINS.
A BIG fat prior stretched and kicked his toes,
And with his grandson dallied as he rose ;
The broad, bright daylight through the window streamed,
And, pricked upon the spit, a partridge steamed.
When rising up, the worthy prelate spat,
To clear his throat, across the floor, and sat
Upon the bed's edge trumping till his nose.
Had roused the cloistered echoes with its blows.
Which being done, and hunching by the spit,
He smacked with unction, gave a twist to it,
And but that now and then his fists he licked,
Without more fooling off the meat he picked,
Sweet, sizzling, crisp no condiment but salt;
A prior he of learning ne'er at fault-
Then put himself outside a jug of wine
And worse wine might be found in France or Flanders And finally, like a devout divine,
In this guise to the throne of grace meanders, "O Lord! don't leave thy servant in the lurch, One has a hard time serving Holy Church."
AT CUPID'S SHRINE.
ON Cupid's brow for crown was set
Of roses a fair chapelet,
That which within her garden green
Were gathered by Love's gracious queen,
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