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Her whip of cricket's bone; the lafh of film;
Her waggoner a small grey-coated gnat,
Not half fo big as a round little worm,
Prick'd from the lazy finger of a maid..
Her chariot is an empty hazel-nut,
Made by the joiner squirrel, or old grub,
Time out of mind the fairies' coach-makers.
And in this state she gallops, night by night,

Through lovers' brains, and then they dream of love:
On courtiers' knees, that dream on curtfies ftrait:
O'er lawyers' fingers, who strait dream on fees: .
O'er ladies' lips, who ftrait on kiffes dream;
Sometimes fhe gallops o'er a courtier's nofe,
And then dreams he of smelling out a fuit:
And fometimes comes the with a tithe-pigs tail,,
Tickling the parfon as he lies asleep;
Then dreams he of another benefice.
Sometimes the driveth o'er a foldier's neck,
And then he dreams of cutting foreign throats,
Of breaches, ambuscadoes, Spanish blades,
Of healths five fathom deep; and then anon
Drums in his ears, at which he starts and wakes;
And being thus frighted, fwears a prayer or two,
And fleeps again.

SHAKESPEAR..

CHA P. XXIV.

APOTHECARY.

DO remember an apothecary,

In tremburan whom late I noted

In tatter'd weeds, with overwhelming brows,

Culling

Culling of fimples; meagre were his looks;
Sharp Mifery had worn him to the bones:
And in his needy shop a tortoife hung,
- An alligator ftuff'd, and other skins
Of ill-fhap'd fishes; and about his shelves
A beggarly account of empty boxes;
Green earthen pots, bladders, and musty seeds,
Remnants of pack-thread, and old cakes of rofes
Were thinly scatter'd to make up a show.
Noting this penury, to myself I said,
An' if a man did need a poison now,
Whofe fale is present death in Mantua,

Here lives a caitiff wretch would fell it him.

Oh, this fame thought did but fore-run my need,
And this fame needy man muft fell it me.

As I remember, this should be the house.

CHA P.

XXV.

SHAKESPEAR,

I

ODE TO EVENING.

Faught of oaten ftop, or paftoral fong,

May hope, chafte Eve, to footh thy modeft ear,
Like thy own folemn springs,

Thy fprings, and dying gales,

O Nymph referv'd, while now the bright hair'd fun
Sits on yon western tent, whose cloudy skirts
With brede ethereal wove,

O'erhang his wavy bed:

Now air is hufh'd, fave where the weak-eyed bat,
With short shrill fhrieks flits by on leathern wing,

Or

Or where the beetle winds

His fmall but fullen horn,

As oft he rifes 'midft the twilight path,
Against the pilgrim born in heedlefs hum,
Now teach me, maid compos'd,

To breathe fome foft'ned ftrain,

Whofe numbers ftealing through thy dark'ning vale,
May not unfeemly with its ftillness fuit,
As mufing flow, I hail

Thy genial love return!

For when thy folding star arising fhews
His paly circlet, as his warning lamp
The fragrant Hours, and Elves

Who flept in flow'rs the day,

And many a Nymph who wreaths her brows with fedge, And sheds the fresh'ning dew, and lovelier ftill,

The penfive Pleasures sweet

Prepare thy fhadowy car,

Then lead, calm Vot'refs, where fome sheety lake
Cheers the lone heath, or fome time-hallowed pile,
Or up-land fallows grey
Reflect its laft cool gleam.

But when chill bluft'ring winds, or driving rain,
Forbid my willing feet, be mine the hut,"
That from the mountain's fide,

Views wilds, and fwelling floods,

And hamlets brown, and dim-difcover'd fpires,
And hears their fimple bell, and marks o'er all
Thy dewy fingers draw

The gradual dusky veil..

While fpring fhall pour his fhow'rs, as oft he wont,
And bathe thy breathing treffes, meekeft Eve!

While

While fummer loves to sport

Beneath thy ling'ring light:

While fallow Autumn fills thy lap with leaves;
Or Winter yelling through the troublous air,
Affrights thy fhrinking train,

And rudely rends thy robes;

So long, fure-found beneath the Sylvan fhed,
Shall Fancy, Friendship, Science, rofe-lip'd Health,
Thy gentleft influence own,

And hymn thy fav'rite name!

CHA P.

XXVI.

COLLINS.

S

O DE T o SPRING.

WEET daughter of a rough and stormy fire,

Hoar Winter's blooming child; delightful Spring!
Whofe unfhorn locks with leaves

And fwelling buds are crown'd;

From the green iflands of eternal youth,

(Crown'd with fresh blooms, and ever fpringing fhade) Turn, hither turn thy step,

O thou, whofe powerful voice

More fweet than fofteft touch of Doric reed,
Or Lydian flute, can foothe the madding winds,
And thro' the ftormy deep

Breathe thy own tender calm.

Thee, beft belov'd! the virgin train await
With fongs and feftal rites, and joy to rove

Thy

Thy blooming wilds among,

And vales and dewy lawns,

With untir'd feet; and cull thy earliest sweets
To weave fresh garlands for the glowing brow
Of him the favour'd youth

That prompts their whisper'd figh.

Unlock thy copious ftores; those tender showers
That drop their sweetness on the infant buds,
And filent dews that fwell

The milky ear's green ftem,.

And feed the flowering ofier's early shoots;
And call those winds which thro' the whifp'ring boughs
With warm and pleasant breath

Salute the blowing flowers.

Now let me fit beneath the whitening thorn
And mark thy spreading tints steal o'er the dale;
And watch with patient eye

Thy fair unfolding charms.

O Nymph approach! while yet the temperate fun
With bashful forehead, thro' the cool moist air
Throws his young maiden beams,
And with chafte kiffes wooes

The earth's fair bofom; while the streaming veil
Of lucid clouds with kind and frequent shade

Protects thy modest blooms

From his feverer blaze.

Sweet

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