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But taking those rare lips of yours
For some fresh, fragrant, luscious flowers:
I thought I might there take a taste,
Where so much syrop ran at waste.
Besides, know this, I never sting
The flower that gives me nourishing:
But with a kiss, or thanks, do pay
For Honey, that I bear away.
This said, he laid his little scrip
Of honey, 'fore her Ladyship:
And told her, as some tears did fall,
That, that he took, and that was all.
At which she smild; and bade him go
And take his bag; but thus much know,
When next he came a pilfering so,
He should from her full lips derive,
Honey enough to fill his hive.


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Confessedly difficult as it is to assume, with grace and ease, the HORATIAN garb, our author has, in more than one instance, exhibited himself to advantage in the costume of the Roman poet. That mixture of voluptuous epicurism and serious thought, which particularises many of the odes and some of the epistles of Horace, he has caught with much effect in his “ Address to his friend Mr. John Wicks," nor in his

“ Ode to Sir Clipseby Crew”* has he shewn Jess skill in imitating the still lighter graces of this fascinating bard. The former of these pieces will convey to the reader an adequate idea of our author's merit in this arduous department.

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Is this a life, to break thy sleep? To rise as soon as day doth peep? To tire thy patient Ox or Ass By noon, and let thy good days pass, Not knowing this, that Jove decrees Some mirth t'adulce man's miseries? No; 'tis a life, to have thine oil, Without extortion, from thy soil: Thy faithful fields to yield thee grain, Although with some, yet little pain: To have thy mind, and nuptial bed, With fears, and cares uncumbered: A pleasing Wife, that by thy side Lies softly panting like a bride. This is to live, and to endear Those minutes, Time has lent us here. Then, while Fates suffer, live thou free, As is that air that circles thee. Time steals


like to a stream And we glide hence away with them,

• Hesperides, page 230.

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No sound recalls the hours once fled,
Or roses, being withered.
Nor us, my friend, when we are lost,
Like to a dew, or melted frost.
Then live we mirthful, while we should,
And turn the iron age to gold.
Let's feast and frolic, sing and play,
And thus less last, than live our day.
Whose life with care is overcast,
That man's not said to live, but last:
Nor is't a life, seven years to tell,
But for to live that half seven well:
And that we'll do; as men, who know,
Some few sands spent, we hence must go,
Both to be blended in the Urn,
From whence there's never a return.

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Agricola incurvo terram dimovit aratro:
Hinc anni labor, hinc patriam, parvosque nepotes
Sustinet; hinc armenta boum meritosque juvencos.
Ipse dies agitat festos; fususque per herbam,

Ignis ubi in medio, et socii cratera coronant,
Te libans, Lenze, vocat.

VIRGILIUS The peasant yearly ploughs his native soil; The lands that blest his fathers bound his toil, Sustain bis herd, his country's wealth increase,

And see his children's children sport in peace.
He too, at times, where flames the rustic shrine,
And, rang'd around, his gay compeers recline,
In grateful leisure on some festive day
Stretch'd on the turf delights his limbs to lay,
To loose from care his disencumber'd soul,
And hail thee, Bacchus! o'er the circling bowl.


Had Herrick adopted any arrangement ör classification for his poetry, it would probably have experienced a kinder fate. The

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