« السابقةمتابعة »
-a dialogue between Endymion Porter and Olivia,-the Dying Lover, the Philosopher and the Lover, &c. and the magnificent verses to his friend, beginning with those fine pauses
"It is,-lord of my muse and heart,-since last
But with these, if the printer can find room for them, we will terminate, as with a piece of noble music, the entertainment which our romantic poet has afforded us.
TO ENDYMION PORTER.
"It is,-lord of my muse and heart,-since last
I'll trie if art, and nature, able be
From the whole strength, and stock of poesie,
YES AND NO.
[The following little natural effusion is one of the most celebrated from the pen of Marot, and made a 66 great sensation " among the gallants of his time. He alludes to it himself in a famous couplet, often quoted as a motto to his works:
Et tant que Ouy et Nenny se dira,
As long as Love says Yes and No,
Marot is worth dozens of the French mo
poets, even of their " "Augustan age." The verses appeared in a court, and were very good and useful for that region; but for our parts, who love the practice of sincerity and kindness without alloy, we love a woman to give way to the genuine impulses of her heart, and to say "Yes" precisely as she means it.]
Un doux Nenni, avec un doux sousrire,
Est tant honneste; il le vous faut apprendre :
O sweet No, no,-with a sweet smile beneath,
To shuffle to town twenty times in a day,
To put (in a proper, thief-like style)
To get and to keep he proceedeth pell-mell,
But to restore what might fill a nut-shell,
To lure some young damsel, by dint of a tongue,
Sooner than good to do ill withal,
*This is one of the squibs with which Marot used to annoy the friars. They who have seen a coarse, fat, sly-looking lay-brother of a convent jogging towards a city in Italy in his dirty drugget on a hot day, will recognize the sort of person aimed at.
Published by HUNT and CLARKE, York street, Covent garden: and sold by all Booksellers and Newsvenders in town and country.-Price 4d.
PRINTED BY C. H. REYNELL, BROAD STREET, GOLDEN SQUARE.
No. XV. WEDNESDAY, APRIL 16, 1828.
"Something alone yet not alone, to be wished, and only to be found, in a friend."-SIR WILLIAM TEMPLE.
MISCELLANEOUS INTENTIONS OF THE COMPANION.
OWING to illness and other circumstances, the Companion has hitherto been unable to effect the main part of its design; which was to keep an eye upon what is going on in the world, and talk upon any subject whatsoever which liberal observers discuss over their tables. We observed in our Prospectus, that the two main topics of the weekly press are politics and the theatre; to which have been lately added specimens of new publications, and more lately, reviews as well as specimens: for, in the former instance, the dull rogues had a sufficient instinct of self-preservation to avoid committing themselves with much of their own. The town, therefore, have enough at present, in a regular way, of politics, and theatricals, and new books; and upon none of these was it part of our intention to expatiate more largely, than the feeling of the moment should excite us. We only reserved a right, as we still do, to say as much or as little of them, as we please. Some old readers encouraged us to say more than we intended, of the
theatres; and this seduced us into late hours, and suppers, and other pleasing enormities, very much to the joy of our hearts, but not at all so to that of our livers; and these being a very resentful part of the human body, and our weakness (if the critics must know it) lying on that side, we have been obliged to eschew the theatres as a general thing; and to go to bed and get up again, like good, middle-aged boys; and so quiet this inconvenient mystery, the liver; which like an over-conscientious dog at one's side, bites his very r master if he does not behave himself.
Adieu then, except at rare intervals, dear, delightful Pasta, with your face of truth, and your heart full of song! If we were a sovereign prince, we would have you sing to us every evening; and light up our belief in truth at your eyes; and ask you, as a particular favour, not to get fatter.
Adieu, wet nights, and hackney-coaches; and playbills, pleasing to be pestered with; and the gallant English pit, so ready to take clap-traps to themselves, and keep seats from the women; and the music between the acts at Covent garden; and Mr Kean's Othello, the finest piece of acting we ever beheld; and "Had it pleased heaven," &c. the finest speech in it, which we intended to hear again; and that very disagreeable piece of wit, the Critic, which we intended to go and see at Drury lane, because there is Mathews in it in Sir Fretful, and Liston (who if he does not bestir himself, will make himself as melancholy with his fat, as he makes others merry with his face), and Mrs Orger, a natural actress, born, if we mistake not, to be as full of truth and good-humour, with that genial smile of her's, as her Tilburina is said to be full of humour sophisticate.
And adieu, pleasing deteriorators,-things impossible not to take after the theatre,-to wit, suppers, with your fire poked up, and your evening just "begun again," and the faces that shine in your lustre; sweet runners into the night, but slayers of next morning; -love you we must, but afford you we cannot. The little eyes are fast asleep, which we must resemble, or not look at. To some other belongs the happy lot of being
The gayest valetudinaire,