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And now again fresh leaves do bud for me, Yet let me feel that still the spirit sings
Its quiet song, coming from heaven free.
S. G. W.
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness, and mere oblivion;
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans every thing.
SHAKSPEARE: As you like it.
THE SEVEN AGES.
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
And 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 woful ballad
Made to his mistress' eyebrow: then a soldier,
Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honor, sudden and quick in quarrel,
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,
Full of wise saws and modern in
THE shadow on the dial's face,
This shadow, which, in every clime,
From hoary rock and aged tree, From proud Palmyra's mouldering walls,
From Teneriffe, towering o'er the
My hand was next to them, and then my heart;
I took, without more thinking, in
Time's gentle admonition;
Can yet the lease of my true love control,
Supposed as forfeit to a confined doom.
The mortal moon hath her eclipse endured,
And the sad augurs mock their own presage;
Incertainties now crown themselves assured,
And peace proclaims olives of endless age.
Now with the drops of this most balmy time
My love looks fresh, and Death to me subscribes,
Since spite of him, I'll live in this poor rhyme,
While he insults o'er dull and speechless tribes.
And thou in this shalt find thy monument,
When tyrants' crests and tombs of brass are spent.
NOT mine own fears, nor the prophetic soul
Of the wide world dreaming on things to come,
THE Destiny, Minister General, That executeth in the world o'er all The purveiance that God hath seen beforne;
So strong it is, that though the world had sworn
Upbear me in your arms, unceasing river,
That from the soul's clear fountain swiftly pours,
Motionless not, until the end is won,
Which now I feel hath scarcely felt the sun.
To feel, to know, to soar unlimited, 'Mid throngs of light-winged angels sweeping far,
And pore upon the realms unvisited, That tesselate the unseen unthought
To be the thing that now I feebly dream
Flashing within my faintest, deepest gleam.
Ah, caverns of my soul! how thick your shade,
Where flows that life by which I faintly see,
Wave your bright torches, for I need your aid, Golden-eyed demons of my ancestry!
Your son though blinded hath a light within,
A heavenly fire which ye from suns did win.
O Time! O Death! I clasp you in my armis,
For I can soothe an infinite cold
And gaze contented on your icy charms,
And that wild snow-pile which we call to-morrow;
Sweep on, O soft, and azure-lidded sky,
Earth's waters to your gentle gaze reply.
I am not earth-born, though I here delay; Hope's child, I summon infiniter powers;
And laugh to see the mild and sunny day
Smile on the shrunk and thin autumnal hours;
I laugh, for hope hath happy place with me,
If my bark sinks, 'tis to another sea. W. E. CHANNING.
I see how plentie surfeits oft,
And hasty climbers soonest fall; I see that such as sit aloft
Mishap doth threaten most of all. These get with toil, and keep with fear;
Such cares my mind could never
No princely pomp nor wealthy store,
No shape to win a lover's eye-
Some have too much, yet still they crave;
I little have, yet seek no more. They are but poor, though much they have;
And I am rich with little store. They poor, I rich; they beg, I give; They lack, I lend; they pine, I live.
I laugh not at another's loss,
I grudge not at another's gaine; No worldly wave my mind can toss; I brook that is another's bane.
I feare no foe, nor fawn on friend;
I joy not in no earthly blisse;
I weigh not Croesus' wealth a straw;
For care, I care not what it is;
I fear not fortune's fatal law; My mind is such as may not move For beauty bright, or force of love.
I wish but what I have at will;
In greatest storms I sit on shore, And laugh at them that toil in vain To get what must be lost again.
I kisse not where I wish to kill;
I wait not at the mighty's gate.
The court nor cart I like nor loathe; Extremes are counted worst of all; The golden mean betwixt them both Doth surest sit, and fears no fall;
This is my choyce; for why, I find No wealth is like a quiet mind.
My wealth is health and perfect
My conscience clear my chief defence;
I never seek by bribes to please,
Nor by desert to give offence. Thus do I live, thus will I die; Would all did so as well as I! WILLIAM BYRD.
AN HONEST MAN'S FORTUNE. You that can look through Heaven, and tell the stars,
Observe their kind conjunctions, and their wars;
Find out new lights, and give them where you please,
To these men honors, pleasures, to those ease;
You that are God's surveyors, and can show
How far, and when, and why the wind doth blow;
Know all the charges of the dreadful thunder,
And when it will shoot over, or fall under:
Tell me, by all your art I conjure ye, Yes, and by truth, what shall be
come of me?