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On which the Tartar king did ride;
And if aught else, great bards befide,
In sage and folemn tunes have sung,
Of tourneys and of trophies hung,
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 kerchief'd in a comely cloud,
While rocking winds are piping loud,
Or usher'd with a shower still,
When the guft hath blown his fill,
Ending on the rustling leaves,
With minute drops from off the eaves.
And when the fun begins to Aling
His faring 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 ftroke,
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 honey'd thigh,
That at her flowery work doth fing,
And the waters murmuring
With such concert as they keep,
Entice the dewy-feather'd sleep:
And let fome ftrange mysterious dream,
Wave at his wings in airy stream
Of lively portraiture display'd,
Softly on my eye-lids laid ;
As I wake sweet music breathe
Above, about, or underneath,
Sent by fome spirit to mortals good,
Or th' unseen genius of the wood :
But let my due feet never fail
To walk the studious cloyfter's pale,
And love the high embowed roof,
With antique pillars' mafiy 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 fweetness, through mine ear
Diffolve me into ecftafies,
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 fit and rightly spell
Of ev'ry star that heav'n doth shew,
And ev'ry herb that fips the dew;
Till old experience do attain
To something like prophetic strain.
These pleasures, Melancholy, give,
And I with thee will choose to liye.
THE PROGRESS OF LIFE.
All the world's a ftage,
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 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 strange oaths, and bearded like a pard, -
Jealous in honour, fudden 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 laws and modern instances;
And so he plays his part. The fixth age shifts
Into the lean and Nipper'd pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose, and pouch on fide ;
His youthful hose well far'd, a world too wide
For his shrunk shank; and his big manly voice,
Turning again towards childish treble, pipes,
And whistles in his found. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness, and mere oblivion,-
Sans teeth, fans eyes, sans tafte, fans every thing.
THE ENTRY OF BOLINGBROKE AND RICHARD
DUKE AND DUCHESS OF YORK..
Duco. My lord, you told me you would tell the rest,
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 duft and rubbish on king Richard's head.
York. Then, as I said, the Duke great Bolingbroke !
Mounted upon a hot and fiery steed,
Which his aspiring rider seem'd to know,
With now, but stately pace, kept on his course ;
While all tongues cried, "God save thee, Bolingbroke !"
You would have thought the very windows fpake,
So many greedy looks of young and old
Through casements darted their defiring eyes
Upon his visage ; and that all the walls
With painted imag'ry had said at once,
Jesu preserve thee ! Welcome, Bolingbroke !
Whilft 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 ftill doing, thus he pass'd along.
Duch. Alas! poor Richard, where rides he the while ? York. As in a theatre, the eyes
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 duft was thrown upon his-facred head :
Which with such gentle forrow 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 bave melted-
And barbarism itself have pitied him.
But Heaven hath a hand in these events,
To whose high will we bound our calm contents.
SON thus with life:
If I do lose thee, I do lose a thing
That none but fools would reck; a breath thou arty
Servile to all the skiey influences,
That do this habitation, where thou keep'it,
Hourly afflicts merely thou art death's fool;
For him thou labour'st by thy flight to fhun,
And yet runn'ft toward him fill. Thou art not noble;
For all the accommodations that thou bear'it,
Are nurs’d by baseness: thou'rt by no means valiant ;
For thou doft fear the foft and tender fork
Of a poor worm. Thy best of rest is sleep,
And that thou oft provok'ft; yet grossly fear'ft