CHAP. XXIII.

Oh! you would be a vestal maid, I warrant,
The bride of Heaven-Come-we may shake

your purpose:

For here I bring in hand a jolly suitor
Hath ta'en degrees in the seven sciences

That ladies love best-He is young and noble,
Handsome and valiant, gay and rich, and liberal.

The Nun.

CHAP. XXVII.

Thou bear'st a precious burden, gentle post,
Nitre and sulphur-see that it explode not.
Old Play.

CHAP. XXXII.

It comes-it wrings me in my parting hour, The long-hid crime-the well-disguised guilt. Bring me some holy priest to lay the spectre ! Old Play.

CHAP. XXXIII.

On the lee-beam lies the land, boys,
See all clear to reef each course;
Let the fore-sheet go, don't mind, boys,
Though the weather should be worse.
The Storm.

CHAP. XXXV.

Sedet post equitem atra cura~

Still though the headlong cavalier,

O'er rough and smooth, in wild career,

Seems racing with the wind;
His sad companion,-ghastly pale,
And darksome as a widow's veil,
CARE-keeps her seat behind.

Horace.

CHAP. XXXVIII.

What sheeted ghost is wandering through the storm?

For never did a maid of middle earth

Choose such a time or spot to vent her sorrows.

Old Play.

CHAP. XXXIX.

Here come we to our close-for that which follows Is but the tale of dull, unvaried misery.

Steep crags and headlong linns may court the

pencil,

Like sudden haps, dark plots, and strange adventures;

But who would paint the dull and fog-wrapt moor, In its long track of sterile desolation?

Old Play.

FROM RED GAUNTLET.

A CATCH OF COWLEY'S ALTERED.

FOR all our men were very very merry,

And all our men were drinking:

There were two men of mine,

Three men of thine,

And three that belonged to old Sir Thom o' Lyne:

As they went to the ferry, they were very very

merry,

And all our men were drinking.

Jack looked at the sun, and cried, Fire, fire, fire; Tom stabled his keffel in Birkendale mire;

Jem started a calf, and halloo'd for a stag;

Will mounted a gate-post instead of his mag:

For all our men were very very merry,

And all our men were drinking;

There were two men of mine,

Three men of thine,

And three that belonged to old Sir Thom o' Lyne: As they went to the ferry, they were very very

merry,

For all our men were drinking.

Letter X.

As lords their labourers' hire delay,

Fate quits our toil with hopes to come, Which, if far short of present pay,

Still owns a debt and names a sum.

Quit not the pledge, frail sufferer, then,
Although a distant date be given,
Despair is treason towards mai,
And blasphemy to Heaven.

Chap. ix.

FROM THE BETROTHED.

(1.) SONG-SOLDIER WAKE.

I.

SOLDIER, Wake-the day is peeping,
Honour ne'er was won in sleeping,
Never when the sunbeams still
Lay unreflected on the hill:

'Tis when they are glinted back

From axe and armour, spear and jack,
That they promise future story

Many a page of deathless glory.
Shields that are the foeman's terror,

Ever are the morning's mirror.

II.

Arm and up-the morning beam
Hath call'd the rustic to his team,

Hath call'd the falc'ner to the lake,

Hath call'd the huntsman to the brake,
The early student ponders o'er
His dusty tomes of ancient lore.
Soldier, wake-thy harvest, fame;
Thy study, conquest; war, thy game.