Of forests, and enchantments drear,
Where more is meant than meets the ear. Thus, night, oft see me in thy pale career, Till civil suited morn appear,
Not trick'd and frounc'd as she was wont With the Attic boy to hunt,
But kerckief'd in a comely cloud, While rocking winds are piping loud, Or usher'd with a shower still, When the gust hath blown his fill, Ending on the rustling leaves, With minute drops from off the eaves. And when the sun begins to fling His flaring beams, me, Goddess, bring To arched walks of twilight groves, And shadows brown that Sylvan loves Of pine or monumental oak,
Where the rude ax with heaved stroke Was never heard the Nymphs to daunt, Or fright them from their hallow'd haunt. There in close covert by some brook, Where no profaner eye may look, Hide me from day's garish eye, While the bee with honeyed thigh That at her flow'ry work doth sing, And the waters murmuring, With such concert as they keep, Entice the dewy-feather'd sleep: And let some strange mysterious dream, Wave at his wings in airy stream Of lively portraiture display'd, Softly on my eye-lids laid;
And as I wake sweet music breathe Above, about, or underneath, Sent by some spirit to mortals good, Or th' unseen Genius of the wood. But let my due feet never fail To walk the studious cloyster's pale, And love the high embowed roof With antique pillars massy proof, And storied windows richly dight,
Casting a dim religious light. There let the pealing organ blow, To the full-voiced quire below, In service high, and anthems clear, As may with sweetness, through mine ear Dissolve me into ecstasies,
And bring all heav'n before mine eyes. And may at last my weary age Find out the peaceful hermitage, The hairy gown and mossy cell, Where I may sit and rightly spell Of ev'ry star that heav'n doth shew, And ev'ry herb that sips the dew; Till old experience do attain
To something like prophetic strain. These pleasures, Melancholy, give,
And I with thee will choose to live. MILTON.
CHAP. XVIII.
The Progress of Life.
ALL the world's a stage,
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 sat-
And shining morning face, creeping like snail Unwillingly to school. And then the Lover, Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad Made to his mistress' eye-brow. Then a Soldier, Full of strauge 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 lin❜d, 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 sav'd, 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 every thing.
The Entry of Bolingbroke and Richard into London.
Duke and Duchess of York.
Duch. My lord, you told me, you would tell
When weeping made you break the story off Of our two cousins coming into London. York. Where did I leave?
Duch. At that sad stop, my lord,
Where rude misgovern'd hands, from window-tops, Threw dust and rubbish on king Richard's head. York. Then, as I said, the duke, great Boling- broke,
Mounted upon a hot and fiery steed, Which his aspiring rider seem'd to know, With slow, but stately pace, kept on his course: While all tongues cried, God save thee, B olin- broke!
You would have thought the very windows spake, So many greedy looks of young and old Through casements darted their desiring eyes Upon his visage; and that all the walls With painted imag'ry had said at once Jesu preserve thee welcome Bolingbroke! Whilst he, from one side to the other turning,
Bare-headed, lower than his proud steed's neck, Bespoke them thus: I thank you, countrymen : And thus still doing, thus he pass'd along. Duch. Alas! poor Richard, where rides he the while?
York. As in a theatre, the eyes of men After a well-grac'd actor leaves the stage, Are idly bent on him that enters next, Thinking his prattle to be tedious:
Even so, or with much more contempt, men's eyes Did scowl on Richard; no man cry'd, God save him!
No joyful tongue gave him his welcome home: But dust was thrown upon his sacred head; Which with such gentle sorrow he shook off (His face still combating with tears and smiles, The badges of his grief and patience) That had not God, for some strong purpose, steel'd The hearts of men, they must perforce have melted, And barbarism itself have pitied him.
But Heaven hath a hand in these events, To whose high will we bound our calm contents.
EASON thus with life :
If I do lose thee, I do lose a thing
That none but fools would reck: a breath thouart, Servile to all the skiey influences,
That do this habitation, where thou keep'st, Hourly afflict; merely thou art death's fool; For him thou labour'st by thy flight to shun, And yet runn'st tow'rd him still. Thou art not noble ;
For all th' accommodations that thou bear'st, Are nurs'd by baseness: thou art by no means yaliant ;
For thou dost fear the soft and tender fork
Of a poor worm. Thy best of rest is sleep, And that thou oft provok'st; yet grossly fear'st Thy death, which is no more. Thou'rt not thyself; For thou exist'st on many a thousand grains, That issue out of dust. Happy thou art not; For what thou hast not, still thou striv'st to get; And what thou hast, forget'st. Thou art not certain; For thy complexion shifts to strange effects, After the moon. If thou art rich, thou'rt poor; For, like an ass, whose back with ingots bows, Thou bear'st thy heavy riches but a journey, And death unloadeth thee. Friend thou hast none; For thy own bowels, which do call thee sire, The mere effusion of thy proper loins
Do curse the Gout, Serpigo, and the Rheum, For ending thee no sooner. Thou hast nor youth nor age;
But as it were an after dinner's sleep,
Dreaming on both; for all thy blessed youth Becomes as aged, and doth beg the alms Of palsied Eld; and when thou'rt old and rich, Thou hast neither heat, affection, limb
To make thy riches pleasant. What's yet in this That bears the name of life? yet in this life Lie hid more thousand deaths; yet death we fear, That makes these odds all even.
Hotspur's Description of a Top.
do remember, when the fight was done When I was dry with rage, and extreme toil, Breathless and faint, leaning upon my sword, Came there a certain lord, neat, trimly dress'd; Fresh as a bridegroom, and his chin, new reap'd Shew'd like a stubble land at harvest home. He was perfumed like a milliner;
And 'twixt his finger and his thumb he held
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