Nor yet has ceased that sound his love revealing,

Though in response a universe moves by;

Throughout eternity its echo pealing,

World after world awakes in glad reply.

And wheresoever in his rich creation

Sweet music breathes in wave or bird or soul,

'Tis but the faint and far reverberation

A flower that dies when first it 'gins to bud;
A brittle glass that's broken presently;
A doubtful good, a gloss, a glass, a flower,
Lost, faded, broken, dead within an hour.

And as good lost is seld or never found,

As faded gloss no rubbing will refresh,
As flowers dead lie withered on the ground,
As broken glass no cement can redress,
So beauty blemished once for ever's lost
In spite of physic, painting, pain and cost.

SHAKESPEARE.

ALL THE WORLD'S A STAGE.
ALL 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 seven ages. At first the

infant,

Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms;
Then the whining schoolboy, with his satchel,
And shining morning face, creeping like
snail

Unwillingly to school; and then the lover,
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad
Made to his mistress' eyebrow; then a sol-
dier,

Full of strange oaths and bearded like the
pard,

Of that great tune to which the planets Jealous in honor, sudden and quick in quarrel,

BEAUTY.

Seeking the bubble reputation

Even in the cannon's mouth; and then the

justice,

In fair round belly with good capon lined,
With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,

EAUTY is but a vain and doubtful Full of wise saws and modern instances,

BEA

good;

A shining gloss that fadeth suddenly;

And so he plays his part; the sixth age.

shifts