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But bless you, it's dear-it's dear! fowls, wine, at double the rate.

They have clapped a new tax upon salt, and what oil pays

passing the gate

It's a horror to think of. And so, the villa for me, not the city!

Beggars can scarcely be choosers—but still-ah, the pity, the pity!

Look two and two go the priests, then the monks with cowls and sandals,

And the penitents dressed in white skirts, a-holding the yellow candles.

One, he carries a flag up straight, and another a cross with handles,

And the Duke's guard brings up the rear, for the better prevention of scandals.

Bang, whang, whang, goes the drum, tootle-te-tootle the fife. Oh, a day in the city-square, there is no such pleasure in life! R. Browning.

POEMS OF COURTSHIP AND LOVE

WHO IS SYLVIA?

WHO is Sylvia? What is she,

That all our swains commend her?
Holy, fair, and wise is she;

The heaven such grace doth lend her,
That she might admired be.

Is she kind as she is fair?

For beauty lives with kindness.
Love doth to her eyes repair

To help him of his blindness,
And, being helped, inhabits there.

Then to Sylvia let us sing

That Sylvia is excelling;

She excels each mortal thing

Upon the dull earth dwelling.

To her let us garlands bring.

W. Shakspere.

THE INDIAN SERENADE

I ARISE from dreams of Thee
In the first sweet sleep of night,
When the winds are breathing low
And the stars are shining bright:
I arise from dreams of thee,
And a spirit in my feet

Hath led me--who knows how?
To thy chamber-window, Sweet!

The wandering airs they faint
On the dark, the silent stream-
The champak odours fail
Like sweet thoughts in a dream;
The nightingale's complaint

It dies upon her heart,

As I must die on thine

O beloved as thou art!

Oh lift me from the grass!

I die, I faint, I fail!

Let thy love in kisses rain

On my lips and eyelids pale.

My cheek is cold and white, alas!

My heart beats loud and fast;

Oh! press it close to thine again
Where it will break at last.

P. B. Shelley.

SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY, LIKE THE NIGHT

SHE walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies,
And all that's best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes;
Thus mellow'd to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impair'd the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress

Or softly lightens o'er her face,

Where thoughts serenely sweet express

How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.

And on that cheek and o'er that brow
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,

The smiles that win, the tints that glow
But tell of days in goodness spent,—
A mind at peace with all below,

A heart whose love is innocent.

Lord Byron.

TO CELIA

DRINK to me only with thine eyes,
And I will pledge with mine;
Or leave a kiss but in the cup

And I'll not look for wine.

The thirst that from the soul doth rise
Doth ask a drink divine;

But might I of Jove's nectar sup,
I would not change for thine.

I sent thee late a rosy wreath,
Not so much honouring thee

As giving it a hope that there

It could not wither'd be;

But thou thereon didst only breathe
And sent'st it back to me;

Since when it grows, and smells, I swear,

Not of itself but thee!

B. Jonson.

O MY LUVE'S LIKE A RED, RED ROSE

O MY Luve's like a red, red rose

That's newly sprung in June:
O my Luve's like the melodie

That's sweetly play'd in tune.

As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,
So deep in luve am I:

And I will luve thee still, my dear,
Till a' the seas gang dry:

Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear,
And the rocks melt wi' the sun;
I will luve thee still, my dear,

While the sands o' life shall run.

And fare thee weel, my only Luve!
And fare thee weel awhile;
And I will come again, my Luve,
Tho' it were ten thousand mile.

R. Burns.

A SERENADE

AH! County Guy, the hour is nigh,

The sun has left the lea,

The orange-flower perfumes the bower,

The breeze is on the sea.

The lark, his lay who thrill'd all day,
Sits hush'd his partner nigh;

Breeze, bird, and flower confess the hour,
But where is County Guy?

The village maid steals through the shade

Her shepherd's suit to hear;

To Beauty shy, by lattice high,
Sings high-born Cavalier.

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