On which the Tartar king did ride;
And if aught elfe, great bards befide,
In fage and folemn tunes have fung,
Of tourney's and of trophies hung,
Of forefts, and enchantments drear,
Where more is meant than meets the ear.

Thus night oft fee me in thy pale căreer,
Till civil-fuited morn appear,

Not trick'd and frounc'd as fhe was wont,
With the Attic boy to hunt,

But kerchief'd in a comely cloud.
While rocking winds are piping loud,

Or usher'd with a shower still,

When the guft hath blown his fill,
Ending on the rustling leaves,

With minute drops from off the eaves.
And when the fun begins to fling
His flaring beams, me, Goddefs, bring
To arched walks of twilight groves,
And shadows brown that Sylvan loves
Of pine, or monumental oak,

Where the rude ax with heaved ftroke,
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 honied thigh,
That at her flow'ry work doth fing,
And the waters murmuring,
With fuch concert as they keep,
Entice the dewy-feather'd sleep:

And

And let fome ftrange myfterious dream,

Wave at his wings in airy ftream

Of lively portraiture difplay'd,
Softly on my eye-lids laid.

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

Sent by fome spirit to mortals good,
Or th' unfeen Genius of the wood.
But let my due feet never fail
To walk the ftudious cloyfters pale,
And love the high embowed roof,
With antique pillars maffy proof,
And ftoried 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 sweetnefs, through mine ear
Diffolve me into extafies,

And bring all heav'n before mine eyes.

And may at last my weary age,
Find out the peaceful hermitage,
The hairy gown and moffy cell,
Where I may fit and rightly spell
Of ev'ry star 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

O F LIFE.

A

LL 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,
Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms.

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

age

fhifts

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 instances,
And fo he plays his part. The fixth
Into the lean and flipper'd pantaloon,
With fpectacles on nofe, and pouch on fide;
His youthful hofe well fav'd, a world too wide
For his fhrunk fhank; and his big manly voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes,
And whiftles in his found. Laft scene of all,
That ends this ftrange eventful history,
Is fecond childishnefs, and mere oblivion,

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

SHAKESPEAR,

CHAP.

CHA P. XIX.

THE ENTRY OF BOLINGBROKE AND RICHARD INTO LONDON.

DUTCH.

DUKE AND DUTCHESS OF York.

ΜΥ

Y Lord, you told me, you would tell the
reit,

When weeping made you break the ftory off,
Of our two coufins coming into London.

YORK. Where did I leave?

DUTCH.

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 said, the Duke, great Bolingbroke! Mounted upon a hot and fiery steed,

Which his aspiring rider feem'd to knów,

With flow, but fiately 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 fteed's neck,
Bespoke them thus: I thank you countrymen ;
And thus ftill doing, thus he pass'd along.

DUTCH. 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 stage,

0 4

Are

Are idly bent on him that enters next,

Thinking his prattle to be tedious:

Even fo, or with much more contempt, men's eyes.
Did fcowl on Richard; no man cry'd, 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 strong purpose, steel'd
The hearts of men, they must perforce have melted,
And barbarifm itfelf have pitied him.

But Heaven hath a hand in these events,

To whofe high will we bound our calm contents.

R

С НА Р. XX.

L I F E.

EASON thus with life:

SHAKESPEAR,

If I do lose 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'ft,
Hourly afflict; merely thou art death's fool;

For him thou labour'ft by thy flight to fhun,

And yet runn'ft tow'rd him still. Thou art not noble;
For all th' accommodations, that thou bear'st,

Are nurs'd by baseness: thou'rt by no means valiant ;
For thou doft fear the foft and tender fork

Of a poor worm. Thy best of rest is sleep,
And that thou oft provok'ft; yet grofsly fear'ft

Thy