He was a tall man, and something more comely at a distance than at hand. To this man Faithful addressed himself in this manner:

Faithful. Friend, whither away? Are you going to the heavenly country?

Talkative. I am going to the same place.

Faithful. That is well; then I hope we may have your good company?

Talkative. With a very good will will I be your companion.

Faithful. Come on, then, let us go together, and let us spend our time in discoursing of things that are profitable.

Talkative. To talk of things that are good, to me is very acceptable, with you or with any other; and I am glad that I have met with those that incline to so good a work; for, to speak the truth, there are but few that care thus to spend their time as they are in their travels, but choose much rather to be speaking of things to no profit; and this hath been a trouble to me.

Faithful. Well, then, what is that one thing that we shall at this time found our discourse upon?

Talkative. What you will. I will talk of things heavenly, or things earthly; things moral, or things evangelical; things sacred, or things profane; things past, or things to come; things foreign, or things at home; things more essential, or things circumstantial; provided that all be done to our profit.

Now did Faithful begin to wonder; and stepping to Christian (for he walked all this while by himself), he said to him, but softly, What a brave companion have we got! Surely this man will make a very excellent pilgrim.

At this Christian modestly smiled, and said, This man with whom you are so taken, will beguile with this tongue of his, twenty of them that know him not.

Faithful. Do you know him, then?

Christian. Know him! Yes, better than he knows himself. Faithful. Pray, what is he?

Christian. His name is Talkative: he dwelleth in our town. I wonder that you should be a stranger to him, only I consider that our town is large.

5.

6.

Faithful. Whose son is he? And whereabout doth he dwell?

Christian. He is the son of one Saywell. He dwelt in Prating Row; and he is known of all that are acquainted with him by the name of Talkative of Prating Row; and notwithstanding his fine tongue, he is but a sorry fellow.

Faithful. Well, he seems to be a very pretty man.

Christian. That is, to them that have not a thorough acquaintance with him, for he is best abroad; near home he is ugly enough. . . . I will give you a further discovery of him. This man is for any company, and for any talk; as he talketh now with you, so will he talk when he is on the alebench; and the more drink he hath in his crown, the more of these things he hath in his mouth. Religion hath no place in his heart, or house, or conversation; all he hath lieth in his tongue, and his religion is to make a noise therewith. Faithful. Say you so! Then am I in this man greatly deceived.

Christian. Deceived! You may be sure of it. Remember the proverb, "They say, and do not; " but "the kingdom of God is not in word, but in power."

Bunyan: Pilgrim's Progress (Fifth Stage).

2. Normal, regular verse

In men whom men denounce as ill

I find so much of goodness still,

In men whom men pronounce divine

I find so much of sin and blot;
I hesitate to draw a line

Between the two, where God has not.

Joaquin Miller: Mankind.

Thou, too, sail on, O Ship of State!
Sail on, O Union, strong and great!
Humanity with all its fears,

With all its hopes of future years,
Is hanging breathless on thy fate!
We know what Master laid thy keel,
What Workmen wrought thy ribs of steel,

Who made each mast, and sail, and rope,
What anvils rang, what hammers beat,
In what a forge and what a heat
Were shaped the anchors of thy hope!
Fear not each sudden sound and shock,
'Tis of the wave and not the rock;
'Tis but the flapping of the sail,
And not a rent made by the gale!
In spite of rock and tempest's roar,
In spite of false lights on the shore,
Sail on, nor fear to breast the sea!
Our hearts, our hopes, are all with thee,
Our hearts, our hopes, our prayers, our tears,
Our faith triumphant o'er our fears,

Are all with thee,

Grow old along with me!

The best is yet to be,

The last of life, for which the first was made:

Our times are in His hand

Who saith, "A whole I planned,

Youth shows but half; trust God: see all, nor be afraid!
Browning: Rabbi Ben Ezra, Stanza 1.

9.

First of November, - the Earthquake day. -
There are traces of age in the one-hoss shay,
A general flavor of mild decay,

But nothing local, as one may say.

There could n't be, - for the Deacon's art

Had made it so like in every part

That there was n't a chance for one to start.

For the wheels were just as strong as the thills,
And the floor was just as strong as the sills,
And the panels just as strong as the floor,
And the whipple-tree neither less nor more,
And the back crossbar as strong as the fore,
And spring and axle and hub encore.
And yet, as a whole, it is past a doubt
In another hour it will be worn out!

First of November, 'Fifty-five!

This morning the parson takes a drive.
Now, small boys, get out of the way!
Here comes the wonderful one-hoss shay,
Drawn by a rat-tailed, ewe-necked bay.
"Huddup!" said the parson. — Off went they.

The parson was working his Sunday's text, -
Had got to fifthly, and stopped perplexed
At what the - Moses was coming next.
All at once the horse stood still,
Close by the meet'n'-house on the hill.

First a shiver, and then a thrill,
Then something decidedly like a spill, —
And the parson was sitting upon a rock,
At half-past nine by the meet'n'-house clock,-
Just the hour of the Earthquake shock!

Holmes: The One-Hoss Shay.

10.

3. Irregular verse

There is a tide in the affairs of men,

Which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune;
Omitted, all the voyage of their life

Is bound in shallows and in miseries.

And we must take the current when it serves,
Or lose our ventures.

Shakespeare: Julius Cæsar, IV, iii.

11. Roaming in thought over the Universe, I saw the little that is Good steadily hastening towards immortality, And the vast all that is call'd Evil I saw hastening to merge itself and become lost and dead.

Whitman.

13.

I pluck you out of the crannies,

I hold you here, root and all, in my hand,
Little flower- but if I could understand
What you are, root and all, and all in all,
I should know what God and man is.

Breathes there the man, with soul so dead,
Who never to himself hath said,

This is my own, my native land?

Whose heart hath ne'er within him burned,
As home his footsteps he hath turned

From wandering on a foreign strand?
If such there breathe, go, mark him well;
For him no minstrel raptures swell;
High though his titles, proud his name,
Boundless his wealth as wish can claim;
Despite those titles, power, and pelf,
The wretch, concentred all in self,
Living, shall forfeit fair renown,
And, doubly dying, shall go down

To the vile dust from whence he sprung,
Unwept, unhonor'd and unsung.

Tennyson.

Scott: The Lay of the Last Minstrel, VI, i.