To be so pestered with a popinjay,

Out of my grief and my impatience,

Answered, neglectingly, I know not what;

He should, or he should not; for he made me mad
To see him shine so brisk, and smell so sweet,

And talk so like a waiting gentlewoman,

Of guns, and drums, and wounds (God save the mark),
And telling me the sovereign'st thing on earth

Was spermaceti, for an inward bruise;
And that it was great pity, so it was,
That villainous saltpetre should be digged
Out of the bowels of the harmless earth,
Which many a good tall fellow had destroyed
So cowardly; and, but for these vile guns,
He would himself have been a soldier!

SHAKSPEARE.

APOSTROPHE TO SLEEP.

SLEEP, gentle sleep,

Nature's soft nurse, how have I frighted thee,

That thou no more wilt weigh my eyelids down,

And steep my senses in forgetfulness?

Why rather, sleep, liest thou in smoky cribs,

Upon uneasy pallets stretching thee,

And hushed with buzzing night-flies to thy slumber;

Than in the perfumed chambers of the great,

Under the canopies of costly state,

And lulled with sounds of sweetest melody:

O thou dull god, why liest thou with the vile

In loathsome beds; and leavest the kingly couch,
A watch-case, or a common 'larum bell?

Wilt thou upon the high and giddy mast

Seal up the ship-boy's eyes, and rock his brains
In cradle of the rude imperious surge;

And in the visitation of the winds,

Who take the ruffian billows by the top,

Curling their monstrous heads, and hanging them
With deafening clamours in the slippery clouds,
That, with the hurly, death itself awakes?
Canst thou, O partial sleep! give thy repose
To the wet sea-boy, in an hour so rude;
And, in the calmest and most stillest night,
With all appliances and means to boot,
Deny it to a king?

SHAKSPEARE.

THE VICISSITUDES OF LIFE.

So farewell to the little good you bear me.
Farewell, a long farewell, to all my greatness!
This is the state of man; to-day he puts forth
The tender leaves of hope, to-morrow blossoms,
And bears his blushing honours thick upon him :
The third day comes a frost, a killing frost;
And-when he thinks, good easy man, full surely
His greatness is a-ripening-nips his root,
And then he falls, as I do. I have ventured,
Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders,
These many summers in a sea of glory;
But far beyond my depth: my high-blown pride
At length broke under me; and now has left me,
Weary and old with service, to the mercy
Of a rude stream that must for ever hide me.

Vain pomp and glory of this world, I hate ye;
I feel my heart new opened: O, how wretched
Is that poor man that hangs on princes' favours!
There is, betwixt that smile we would aspire to,
That sweet aspect of princes, and their ruin,
More pangs and fears than wars of women have;
And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer,

Never to hope again.

SHAKSPEARE.

THE HAPPY LIFE.

How happy is he born and taught
That serveth not another's will;
Whose armour is his honest thought,

And simple truth his utmost skill!

Whose passions not his masters are,
Whose soul is still prepared for death,

Untied unto the worldly care

Of public fame or private breath.

Who envies none that chance doth raise,
Or vice; who never understood
How deepest wounds are given by praise,
Nor rules of state, but rules of good.

Who hath his life from rumours freed,
Whose conscience is his strong retreat;

Whose state can neither flatterers feed,

Nor ruin make oppressors great.

Who God doth late and early pray

More of his grace than gifts to lend; And entertains the harmless day

With a religious book or friend.

This man is freed from servile bands
Of hope to rise, or fear to fall;
Lord of himself, though not of lands;
And having nothing, yet hath all.

WOTTON.

THE SWEET NEGLECT.

STILL to be neat, still to be drest,
As you were going to a feast;
Still to be powdered, still perfumed;
Lady, it is to be presumed-

Though art's hid causes are not found

All is not sweet, all is not sound!

Give me a look, give me a face,
That makes simplicity a grace;
Robes loosely flowing, hair as free!
Such sweet neglect more taketh me,
Than all the adulteries of art,

That strike mine eyes, but not my heart.

JONSON.

ON LUCY, COUNTESS OF BEDFORD.

THIS morning, timely wrapt with holy fire,

I thought to form unto my zealous Muse, What kind of creature I could most desire

To honour, serve, and love; as poets use. I meant to make her fair, and free, and wise, Of greatest blood, and yet more good than great; I meant the day-star should not brighter rise, Nor lend like influence from his lucent seat. I meant she should be courteous, facile, sweet, Hating that solemn vice of greatness, pride; I meant each softest virtue there should meet, Fit in that softer bosom to reside.

Only a learned and a manly soul

I purposed her; that should, with even powers, The rock, the spindle, and the shears control

Of destiny, and spin her own free hours.

Such when I meant to feign, and wished to see,
My muse bade Bedford write, and that was she!

JONSON.

THE PLEASURES OF HEAVEN.

THERE all the happy souls that ever were,
Shall meet with gladness in one theatre;
And each shall know there one another's face,
By beatific virtue of the place.

There shall the brother with the sister walk,

And sons and daughters with their parents talk;