Confider,

BEL. Now for our mountain sport, up to yond hill,
Your legs are young. I'll tread thefe flats.
When you, above, perceive me like a crow,
That it is place which leffens and fets off:
And you may then revolve what tales I told you
Of courts, of princes, of the tricks in war ;
That fervice is not service, fo being done,
But being fo allow'd. To apprehend thus,
Draws us a profit from all things we fee;
And often, to our comfort, fhall we find
The fharded beetle in a safer hold,

Than is the full-wing'd eagle. Oh, this life
Is nobler than attending for a check;
Richer, than doing nothing for a bauble:
Prouder, than rustling in unpaid-for filk.

Such gain the cap of him, that makes them fine,
Yet keeps his book uncrofs'd :—no life to ours.

GUID. Out of your proof you fpeak; we, poor, unfledg'd,

Have never wing'd from view o' th' neft; nor know
What air's from home. Haply this life is beft,
If quiet life is bett; fweeter to you,

That have a sharper known; well correfponding
With your stiff age: but unto us, it is
A cell of ign'rance; travelling a-bed;
A prifon, for a debtor that not dares
To ftride a limit.

ARV. What fhould we speak of,

When we are old as you? When we shall hear
The rain and wind beat dark December? how,
In this our pinching cave, shall we discourse
The freezing hours away? We have feen nothing;
We're beaftly; fubtle as the fox for prey,

M 3

Like

Like warlike as the wolf, for what we eat.
Our valour is to chafe what flies; our cage
We make a choir, as doth the prifon'd bird
And fing our bondage freely.

BEL. How you speak!

Did you but know the city's ufuries,

And felt them knowingly; the art o' th 'court,
As hard to leave, as keep; whofe top to clime,
Is certain falling; or fo flipp'ry, that

The fear's as bad as falling; the toil of war ;
A pain that only feems to feek out danger

I' th' name of fame and honours; which dies i' th' fearch, And hath as oft a fland'rous epitaph,

As record of fair act; nay, many time,

Doth ill deferve, by doing well: what's worse
Muft curt'fy at the cenfure.-Oh, boys, this story
The world might read in me: my body's mark'd
With Roman swords; and my report was once
First with the best of note. Cymbeline lov'd me ;
And when a foldier was the theme, my name
Was not far off then was I as a tree,

Whofe bows did bend with fruit. But, in one night,
A ftorm, or robbery, call it what you will,

Shook down my mellow hangings, nay, my leaves;
And left me bare to weather,

GUID. Uncertain favour!

you

BEL. My fault being nothing, as I have told
But that two villains whofe falfe oaths prevail'd
Before my perfect honour) fwore to Cymbeline,
I was confed'rate with the Romans: fo
Follow'd my banishment; and, thefe twenty years
This rock and thefe demefnes have been my world;

oft,

Where

Where I have liv'd at honeft freedom; paid

More pious debts to Heaven, than in all

The fore-end of my time. But, up to th' mountains.!
This is not hunter's language; he that strikes

The venison first, shall be the lord o' th' feast;
To him the other two fhall minister,

And we will fear no poifon, which attends
In place of greater state.

I'll meet you in the valleys.

SHAKSPEARE

воок VII.

DESCRIPTIVE PIECES.

D

CHAP. I.

SENSIBILITY.

EAR Senfibility! fource inexhausted of all that's precious in our joys, or coftly in our forrows! thou chaineft thy martyr down upon his bed of ftraw, and it is thou who lifteft him up to Heaven. Eternal Fountain of our feelings! It is here I trace thee, and this is thy divinity which ftirs within me not, that in fome sad and fickening moments, my foul fhrinks back upon herself, and startles at deftruction'-mere pomp of words!—but that I feel fome generous joys and generous cares beyond myfelf-all comes from thee, great, great Senforium of the world! Which vibrates, if a hair of our head but falls upon the ground, in the remotest desert of thy creation. Touched with thee, Eugenius draws my curtain when I languish ; hears my tale of fymptoms, and blames the weather for the diforder of his nerves. Thou giveft a portion of it some

times to the roughest peafant who traverfes the bleakeft mountains. He finds the lacerated lamb of another's flock. This moment I behold him leaning with his head against his crook, with piteous inclination looking down upon it -Oh! had I come one moment fooner!-it bleeds to death-his gentle heart bleeds with it.

PEACE to thee, generous fwain! I fee thou walkest off with anguish-but thy joys fhall balance it; for happy is thy cottage, and happy is the fharer of it, and happy are the lambs which fport about you.

STERNE

D

CHA P. II.

LIBERTY AND SLAVERY.

ISGUISE thyfelf as thou wilt, ftill SLAVERY! ftill

thou art a bitter draught; and though thousands in all ages have been made to drink of thee, thou art not lefs bitter on that account. It is thou, LIBERTY, thrice fweet and gracious goddess, whom all in public or in private worship, whose taste is grateful, and ever will be fo, till nature herself shall change-no tint of words can spot thy fnowy mantle, or chymic power turn thy fceptre into ironwith thee to fmile upon him as he eats his cruft, the swain is happier than his monarch, from whofe court thou art exiled. Gracious Heaven! grant me but health, thou great Beftower of it, and give me but this fair goddess as my companion; and shower down thy mitres, if it feem good unto thy divine providence, upon thofe heads which are aching. PURSUING thefe ideas, I fat down close by my table, and leaning my head upon my hand, I began to figure to myself