Such as hang on Hebe's cheek, And in thy right hand lead with thee To live with her, and live with thee, NARRATION 35. Oliver's Speech to Rosalina. When last the young Orlando parted from you Within an hour, and pacing through the forest, Under an oak, whose boughs were moss'd with age A wretched ragged man, o'ergrown with hair, A green and gilded snake had wreathed itself, Who with her head nimble in threats approach'à A lioness, with udders all drawn dry, Lay couching, head on ground, with catlike watch, To prey on nothing that doth seem as dead: 36. Ordinary Conversation. Enter CELIA and ROSALIND. Cel. Why, cousin! why, Rosalind! Cupid have mercy! not a word? Ros. Not one to throw at a dog. Cel. No, thy words are too precious to be cast away upon curs; throw some of them at me; come, lame me with reasons. Ros. Then there were two cousins laid up; when the one should be lamed with reasons and the other mad without any. O, how full of briers is this working-day world! Cel. They are but burs, cousin, thrown upon thee in holiday foolery: if we walk not in the trodden paths, our very petticoats will catch them. Ros. I could shake them off my coat: these burs are in my heart. Cel. Hem them away. Ros. I would try, if I could cry hem and have him. Cel. Come, come, wrestle with thy affections. Is it possible, on such a sudden, you should fall into so strong a liking with old Sir Rowland's youngest son? Ros. The Duke my father loved his father dearly. Cel. Doth it therefore ensue that you should love his son dearly? By this kind of chase, I should hate him, for my father hated his father dearly: yet I hate not Orlando. Ros. No, faith, hate him not, for my sake. Cel. Why should I not? doth he not deserve well? Ros. Let me love him for that, and do you love him because I do. As You Like It, i. 3. PATRIOTISM. 37. Love of Country. Breathes there a man with soul so dead, This is my own, my native land! Whose heart hath ne'er within him burn'd, From wandering on a foreign strand? If such there breathe, go mark him well: O Caledonia stern and wild, Meet nurse for a poetic child! SCOTT, Lay of the Last Minst, eɩ. 38. Ye Mariners of England. Ye Mariners of England! That guard our native seas, Whose flag has braved, a thousand years, The battle and the breeze! Your glorious standard launch again To match another foe! And sweep through the deep, While the stormy tempests blow; While the battle rages loud and long, And the stormy tempests blow. The spirits of your fathers Shall start from every wave !— For the deck it was their field of fame, And Ocean was their grave: Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell, As ye sweep through the deep, While the battle rages loud and long, Britannia needs no bulwark, No towers along the steep; Her march is o'er the mountain waves, Her home is on the deep. With thunders from her native oak, As they roar on the shore, When the stormy tempests blow; And the stormy tempests blow. The meteor flag of England Till danger's troubled night depart. Then, then, ye ocean warriors! Our song and feast shall flow When the storm has ceased to blow; When the fiery fight is heard no more, And the storm has ceased to blow.-CAMPBELL. 39. Undying Fame. They never fail who die : In a great cause: the block may soak their gore; Of true Venetians, sprung from Roman sires. BYRON, Marino Faliero. PITY. 40. Description of King Richard the Second's Entry into London. Duchess. Alack, poor Richard! where rode he the whilst? After a well-graced actor leaves the stage, Thinking his prattle to be tedious; Even so, or with much more contempt, men's eyes Did scowl on gentle Richard; no man cried 'God save him! But dust was thrown upon his sacred head; His face still combating with tears and smiles, That had not God, for some strong purpose, stéel'd The hearts of men, they must perforce have melted, And barbarism itself have pitied him.-Richard II. v. 2. PLAINTIVENESS. 41. Lamentation over Greece. He who hath bent him o'er the dead Ere the first day of death is fled, The last of danger and distress, (Before Decay's effacing fingers Have swept the lines where beauty lingers,) And mark'd the mild angelic air, The rapture of repose that's there, The fix'd yet tender traits that streak The langour of the placid cheek, That fires not, wins not, weeps not, now, Appals the gazing mourner's heart, |