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Such as hang on Hebe's cheek,
And love to live in dimples sleek;
Sport that wrinkled Care derides,
And Laughter holding both his sides.
Come, and trip it, as you go,
On the light fantastic toe;

And in thy right hand lead with thee
The mountain-nymph sweet Liberty;
And, if I give thee honour due,
Mirth, admit me of thy crew,

To live with her, and live with thee,
In unreproved pleasures free. --MILTON.

NARRATION

35. Oliver's Speech to Rosalind

When last the young Orlando parted from you
He left a promise to return again

Within an hour, and pacing through the forest,
Chewing the food of sweet and bitter fancy,
Lo, what befel! he threw his eye aside,
And mark what object did present itself:

Under an oak, whose boughs were moss'd with age
And high top bald with dry antiquity,

A wretched ragged man, o'ergrown with hair,
Lay sleeping on his back: about his neck

A green and gilded snake had wreathed itself,

Who with her head nimble in threats approach'd
The opening of his mouth; but suddenly,
Seeing Orlando, it unlinked itself,
And with indented glides did slip away
Into a bush: under which bush's shade

A lioness, with udders all drawn dry,

Lay couching, head on ground, with catlike watch,
When that the sleeping man should stir; for 'tis
The royal disposition of that beast

To prey on nothing that doth seem as dead:
This seen, Orlando did approach the man
And found it was his brother, his elder brother.
As You Like It, iv. 3.

36. Ordinary Conversation.

Enter CELIA and ROSALIND.

Cel. Why, cousin! why, Rosalind! Cupid have mercy! not a word?

Ros. Not one to throw at a dog.

Cel. No, thy words are too precious to be cast away upon curs; throw some of them at me; come, lame me with reasons.

Ros. Then there were two cousins laid up; when the one should be lamed with reasons and the other mad without any. O, how full of briers is this working-day world!

Cel. They are but burs, cousin, thrown upon thee in holiday foolery: if we walk not in the trodden paths, our very petticoats will catch them.

Ros. I could shake them off my coat: these burs are in my heart.

Cel. Hem them away.

Ros. I would try, if I could cry hem and have him.

Is it possible,

Cel. Come, come, wrestle with thy affections. on such a sudden, you should fall into so strong a liking with old Sir Rowland's youngest son?

Ros. The Duke my father loved his father dearly.

Cel. Doth it therefore ensue that you should love his son dearly? By this kind of chase, I should hate him, for my father hated his father dearly: yet I hate not Orlando.

Ros. No, faith, hate him not, for my sake.

Cel. Why should I not? doth he not deserve well?

Ros. Let me love him for that, and do you love him because I do. As You Like It, i. 3.

PATRIOTISM.

37. Love of Country.

Breathes there a man with soul so dead,
Who never to himself hath said,

This is my own, my native land!

Whose heart hath ne'er within him burn'd,
As home his footsteps he hath turn'd

From wandering on a foreign strand?

If such there breathe, go mark him well:
For him no minstrel raptures swell;

High though his titles, proud his name,
Boundless his wealth as wish can claim;
Despite those titles, power, and pelf,
The wretch, concentred all in self,
Living, shall forfeit fair renown,
And, doubly dying, shall go down
To the vile dust, from whence he sprung,
Unwept, unhonour'd, and unsung.

O Caledonia! stern and wild,

Meet nurse for a poetic child!

SCOTT, Lay of the Last Minstrel.

38. Ye Mariners of England.

Ye Mariners of England!

That guard our native seas,

Whose flag has braved, a thousand years,

The battle and the breeze!

Your glorious standard launch again

To match another foe!

And sweep through the deep,

While the stormy tempests blow;

While the battle rages loud and long,

And the stormy tempests blow.

The spirits of your fathers

Shall start from every wave !—

For the deck it was their field of fame,

And Ocean was their grave:

Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell,
Your manly hearts shall glow,

As ye sweep through the deep,

While the stormy tempests blow;

While the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy tempests blow.

Britannia needs no bulwark,

No towers along the steep;

Her march is o'er the mountain waves,

Her home is on the deep.

With thunders from her native oak,
She quells the floods below,—

As they roar on the shore,

When the stormy tempests blow;
When the battle rages loud and long,

And the stormy tempests blow.

The meteor flag of England
Shall yet terrific burn;

Till danger's troubled night depart,
And the star of peace return.

Then, then, ye ocean warriors!

Our song and feast shall flow
To the fame of your name,

When the storm has ceased to blow;

When the fiery fight is heard no more,

And the storm has ceased to blow.-CAMPBELL.

39. Undying Fame.

They never fail who die

In a great cause: the block may soak their gore;
Their heads may sodden in the sun; their limbs
Be strung to city gates and castle walls-
But still their spirit walks abroad. Though years
Elapse, and others share as dark a doom,
They but augment the deep and sweeping thoughts
Which overpower all others, and conduct
The world at last to freedom: What were we
If Brutus had not lived? He died in giving
Rome liberty, but left a deathless lesson-
A name which is a virtue, and a soul
Which multiplies itself throughout all time,
When wicked men wax mighty, and a state
Turns servile: he and his high friend were styled
'The last of Romans !' Let us be the first

Of true Venetians, sprung from Roman sires.

BYRON, Marino Faliero.

PITY.

40. Description of King Richard the Second's Entry
into London.

Duchess. Alack, poor Richard! where rode he the whilst ?
York. As in a theatre, the eyes of men,

After a well-graced actor leaves the stage,
Are idly bent on him that enters next,

Thinking his prattle to be tedious;

Even so, or with much more contempt, men's eyes

Did scowl on gentle Richard; no man cried God save him!'
No joyful tongue gave him his welcome home :

But dust was thrown upon his sacred head;
Which with such gentle sorrow he shook off.
His face still combating with tears and smiles,
The badges of his grief and patience,

That had not God, for some strong purpose, steel'd

The hearts of men, they must perforce have melted,

And barbarism itself have pitied him.-Richard II. v. 2.

PLAINTIVENESS.

41. Lamentation over Greece.

He who hath bent him o'er the dead

Ere the first day of death is fled,

The first dark day of nothingness,

The last of danger and distress,

(Before Decay's effacing fingers

Have swept the lines where beauty lingers,)

And mark'd the mild angelic air,

The rapture of repose that's there,
The fix'd yet tender traits that streak

The langour of the placid cheek,
And--but for that sad shrouded eye,

That fires not, wins not, weeps not, now,
And but for that chill, changeless brow,
Where cold Obstruction's apathy

Appals the gazing mourner's heart,

As if to him it could impart

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