Was never heard the Nymphs to daunt,
Or fright them from their hallow'd haunt.
There in close covert by fome brook,
Where no profaner eye may look,
Hide me from day's garish eye,
While the bee with honey'd thigh,
That at her flow'ry work doth fing,
And the waters murmuring,
With fuch concert as they keep,
Entice the dewy-feather'd fleep:
And let fome ftrange myfterious dream,
Wave at his wings in airy ftream
Of lively portraiture difplay'd,
Softly on my eyelids laid:

And as I wake fweet mufic breathe
Above, about, or underneath,

Sent by fome fpirit to mortals good,
Or th' unfeen Genius of the wood.
But let my due feet never fail
To walk the ftudious cloifter's pale.
And love the high embowed roof,
With antique pillars mafly proof,
And storied windows richly dight,
Cafting a dim religious light.
There let the pealing organ blow,
To the full-voiced quire below,
In fervice high, and anthems clear,
As may with fwcetness, through mine ear
Diffolve me into ecftacies,

And bring all Heav'n before mine eyes.
And may at laft
my weary age
Find out the peaceful hermitage,
The hairy gown and moffy cell,
Where I may fit and rightly spell

Of ev'ry ftar that Heav'n doth fhew,
And ev'ry herb that fips the dew;
Till old experience do attain
To fomething like prophetic ftrain.
These pleasures, Melancholy, give,
And I with thee will choose to live.

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 feven ages. At first the infant,
Muling and puking in the nurse's arms,

MILTON.

And then the whining fchool-boy, with his fatchel,
And fhining morning face, creeping like fnail
Unwillingly to fchool. And then the lover,
Sighing like furnace, with a woful ballad
Made to his miftrefs' eyebrow. Then a foldier,
Full of ftrange oaths, and bearded like the bard,
Jealous in honour, fudden and quick in quarrel;
Seeking the bubble reputation

Even in the cannon's mouth. And then the juftice,
In fair round belly, with good capon lin❜d,

With eyes fevere, and beard of formal cut,
Full of wife faws and modern inftauces;

And fo he plays his part. The fixth age shifts
Into the lean and flipper'd pantaloon,

With fpectacles on nofe, and pouch on fide;
His youthful hose well fav'd, a world too wide
For his fhrunk fhank; and his big manly voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his found. Laft fcene of all,
That ends this ftrange eventful history,

Is

Is fecond childishness, and mere oblivion,

Sans teeth, fans eyes, fans taste, fans every thing.

CHAP. XIX.

SHAKSPEARE..

THE ENTRY OF BOLINGBROKE AND RICHARD INTO LONDON..

DUKE AND DUCHESS OF YORK.

DUCH. My lord, you told me you would tell the reft,
When weeping made you break the ftory off,
Of our two coufins coming into London.
YORK. Where did I leave ?

DUCH. At that fad ftop, my lord,'

Where rude, mifgovern'd hands, from window-tops,
Threw duft and rubbish on King Richard's head.

YORK, Then, as I faid, the Duke, great Bolingbroke,, Mounted upon a hot and fiery fleed,

Which his afpiring rider feem'd to know,

With flow, but ftately pace, kept on his course:
While all tongues cried, God fave thee, Bolingbroke!!
You would have thought the very windows fpake,.

So many greedy looks of young and old.
Through cafements darted their defiring eyes.
Upon his vifage: and that all the walls
With painted imag'ry had faid at once,
Jefu preferve thee! welcome Bolingbroke!
Whilft he, from one fide 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 pafs'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 ftage,
Are idly bent on him that enters next,.
Thinking his prattle to be tedious:
N 55

Even

Even fo, or with much more contempt, men's eyes

Did fcowl on Richard: no man cried, God fave him!
No joyful tongue gave him his welcome home :
But duft was thrown upon his facred head;
Which with fuch gentle forrow he shook off
(His face ftill combating with tears and fmiles,
The badges of his grief and patience,)

That had not God, for fome ftrong purpofe, fteel'd
The hearts of men, they must perforce have melted,
And barbarism itself have pitied him.

But Heaven hath a hand in thefe events,

To whofe high will we bound our calm contents.

CHAP. XX.

LIFE.

SHAKSPEARE.

-REASON thus with life:

If I do lofe thee, I do lofe a thing

That none but fools would reck: a breath thou art,

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'ft by thy flight to shun,

And yet runn'ft tow'rd him ftill. Thou art not noble;
For all th' accommodations that thou bear'ft,
Are nurs'd by bafenefs: thou art by no means valiant;
For thou doft fear the foft and tender fork

Of a poor worm. Thy beft of reft is fleep,
And that thou oft provok'ft; yet grofsly fear'st
Thy death, which is no more. Thou'rt not thyself;
For thou exift'ft on many a thousand grains,
That iffue out of duft. Happy thou art not;
For what thou haft not, ftill thou striv❜ft to get;
And what thou haft, forgett'ft. Thou art not certain;
For thy complexion fhifts to ftrange effects,

After

After the moon. If thou art rich, thou'rt poor;
For, like an afs, whofe back with ingots bows,
Thou bear'st thy heavy riches but a journey,
And death unloadeth thee. Friend thou haft none;
For thy own bowels, which do call thee fire,

The mere effufion of thy proper loins,

Do curfe the Gout, Serpigo, and the Rheum,

For ending thee no fooner. Thou haft nor youth nor age;

But as it were an after dinner's fleep,

Dreaming on both; for all thy bleffed youth
Becomes as aged, and doth beg the alms

Of palfied Eld; and when thou'st old and rich,
Thou haft neither heat, affection, limb, nor bounty,
To make thy riches pleasant. What's yet in this
That bears the name of life? yet in this life
Lie hid more thoufand deaths; yet death we fear,
That makes thefe odds all even.

SHAKSPEARE

I

CHAP. XXI..

HOTSPUR'S DESCRIPTION OF A FOP.

Do remember when the fight was done,

When I was dry with rage and extreme toil,
Breathlefs and faint, leaning upon my fword,
Came there a certain lord, neat, trimly drefs'd;
Fresh as a bridegroom, and his chin, new reap'd,
Show'd like a ftubble land at harvest home.
He was perfumed like a milliner;

And 'twixt his finger and his thumb he held.
A pouncet-box, which ever and anon

He gave his nofe, and took't away again;
Who, therewith angry, when it next came there,
Took it in fnuff-And ftill he fmil'd, and talk'd;.
And as the foldiers' bare dead bodies by,