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TIME.

JESSICA.

I am never merry when I hear sweet music.

LORENZO.

159

The reason is, your spirits are attentive :
For do but note a wild and wanton herd,
Or race of youthful and unhandled colts,
Fetching mad bounds, bellowing, and neighing
loud,

Which is the high condition of their blood;
If they perchance but hear a trumpet sound,
any air of music touch their ears,

Or

You shall perceive them make a mutual stand,
Their savage eyes turn'd to a modest gaze

By the sweet power of music: therefore the poet Did feign that Orpheus drew trees, stones, and floods;

Since nought so stockish, hard, and full of rage,
But Music for the time doth change his nature:
The man that hath no music in himself,

Nor is not moved with concord of sweet sounds,
Is fit for treasons, stratagems, and spoils;
The motions of his spirit are dull as night,
And his affections dark as Erebus;

Let no such man be trusted. Mark the music.

SHAKSPERE.

TIME.

"WHY sitt'st thou by that ruin'd hall,
Thou aged carle, so stern and grey?

Dost thou its former pride recall,
Or ponder how it pass'd away?"

160

A LILY BY MOONLIGHT.

"Know'st thou not me?" the deep voice cried, "So long enjoy'd, so oft misused; Alternate, in thy fickle pride,

Desir'd, neglected, and accused?

Before my breath, like blazing flax,
Man and his marvels pass away;
And changing empires wane and wax,
Are founded, flourish, and decay.
Redeem mine hours;-the space is brief,
While in my glass the sand-grains shiver,
And measureless thy joy or grief

When time and thou shall part for ever!"

SCOTT.

TO A LILY FLOWERING BY MOONLIGHT.

Он, why, thou lily pale,

Lov'st thou to blossom in the wan moonlight, And shed thy rich perfume upon the night? When all thy sisterhood,

In silken cowl and hood,

Screen their soft faces from the sickly gale, Fair-horned Cynthia wooes thy modest flower, And with her beaming lips

Thy kisses cold she sips,

For thou art aye her only paramour;
What time she nightly quits her starry bower,
Trick'd in celestial light,

And silver crescent bright.

GOOD MORROW.

Oh, ask thy vestal queen,
If she will thee advise,

Where in the blessed skies

That maiden may be seen,

161

[day,

Who hung, like thee, her pale head through the
Love-sick and pining for the evening ray;

And lived a maiden chaste amid the folly
Of this bad world, and died of melancholy?
Oh, tell me where she dwells!

So on thy mournful bells

Shall Dian nightly fling

Her tender sighs to give thee fresh perfume,
Her pale night-lustre to enhance thy bloom,
And find thee tears to feed thy sorrowing.

ROSCOE.

GOOD MORROW.

You that have spent the silent night

In sleep and quiet rest,

And joy to see the cheerful light

That riseth in the east ;

Now clear your voice, now cheer your heart,
Come help me now to sing;
Each willing wight come bear a part
To praise the heav'nly King.

And you whom care in prison keeps,
Or sickness doth suppress,

Or secret sorrow breaks your sleeps,
Or dolours do distress;

162

GOOD MORROW.

Yet bear a part in dolefulwise,
Yea, think it good accord,
And acceptable sacrifice,

Each sprite to praise the Lord.

The dreadful night with darksomeness
Had overspread our light,
And sluggish sleep with drowsiness
Had overprest our might:
A glass wherein you may behold
Each storm that stops our breath;
Our bed the grave, our clothes like mould,
And sleep like dreadful death.

Yet as this dreadful night did last
But for a little space,

And heavenly day, now night is past,
Doth shew his pleasant face;
So must we hope to see God's face

At least in heaven on high,

When we have chang'd this mortal place
For immortality.

And of such haps and heav'nly joys
As then we hope to hold,

All earthly sight and worldly toys
Are tokens to behold.

The day is like the day of doom,

The sun the Son of man,

The skies the heaven, the earth the tomb
Wherein we rest till then.

GOOD MORROW.

The rainbow bending in the sky,
Bedeck'd with sundry hues,
Is like the seat of God on high,
And seems to tell these news:
That as thereby He promised
To drown the world no more,
So by the blood which Christ hath shed
He will our health restore.

The misty clouds that fall sometime,
And overcast the skies,

Are like to troubles of our time
Which do but dim our eyes :
But as such dews are dried up quite
When Phoebus shews his face,
So are such fancies put to flight
When God doth guide by grace.

The little birds which sing so sweet
Are like the angels' voice,
Which render God His praises meet,
And teach us to rejoice :

And as they more esteem that mirth
Than dread the night's annoy,
So must we deem our days on earth
But hell to heavenly joy.

Unto which joys for to attain
God grant us all His grace,
And send us, after worldly pain,
In heaven to have a place;

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