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Quips, and cranks, and wanton wiles,
Nods, and becks, and wreathed smiles,
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 ye go,
On the light fantastic toe;
And in thy right hand bring with thee
The mountain nymph, sweet Liberty.—Milton.
III. LAUGHTER ON SEEING A SHREWD BUFFOON.
A FOOL, a fool! I met a fool i' th' forest,
A motley fool, a miserable varlet!
As I do live by food I met a fool,
Who laid him down, and bask'd him in the sun,
And rail'd on lady Fortune in good terms;
In good set terms-and yet a motley fool.
Good morrow, fool, quoth I. No, sir, quoth he,
Call me not fool, till heav'n hath sent me fortune.
And then he drew a dial from his poke,
And looking on it with lack-lustre eye,
Says very wisely, it is ten o'clock:
Thus may we see, quoth he, how the world wags; 'Tis but an hour ago since it was nine,
And after one hour more 'twill be eleven;
And so from hour to hour we ripe and ripe,
And then from hour to hour we rot and rot;
And thereby hangs a tale. When I did hear
The motley fool thus moral on the time,
My lungs began to crow like chanticleer,
That fools should be so deep contemplative;
And I did laugh, sans intermission,
An hour by his dial. O noble fool!
A worthy fool! Motley's the only wear.
IV.-RALLYING A PERSON FOR BEING MELANCHOLY.
With Mirth and Laughter; so let wrinkles come,
And let my liver rather heat with wine,
Than my heart cool with mortifying groans.
Why should a man, whose blood is warm within,
Sit like his grandsire cut in alabaster?
Sleep when he wakes, and creep into the jaundice
By being peevish? I tell thee what, Antonio,
(I love thee, and it is my love that speaks,)
There are a sort of men whose visages
Do cream and mantle like a standing pond,
And do a wilful stillness entertain,
With purpose to be dress'd in an opinion
Of wisdom, gravity, profound conceit,
As who should say, I am, Sir Oracle,
And when I ope my lips, let no dog bark!
I'll tell thee more of this another time;
But fish not with this melancholy bait
For this fool's gudgeon, this opinion.
Come, good Lorenzo, fare ye well a while,
I'll end my exhortation after dinner.
V. SCOFFING AT SUPPOSED COWARDICE.
SATAN beheld their plight,
And to his mates thus in derision call'd:
O friends, why come not on those victors proud?
Erewhile they fierce were coming and when we,
To entertain them fair with open front
And breast, (what could we more?) propounded terms-
Of composition, straight they chang'd their minds,
Flew off, and into strange vagaries fell,
As they would dance: yet for a dance they seem'd
Somewhat extravagant and wild, perhaps
For joy of offer'd peace; but I suppose,
If our proposals once again were heard,
We should compel them to a quick result.
VI.-JOY, OR SATISFACTION INEXPRESSIBLE.
IMOINDA, oh! this separation
Has made you dearer, if it can be so,
Than you were ever to me: you appear
Like a kind star to my benighted steps,
To guide me on my way to happiness;
I cannot miss it now. Governor, friend,
You think me mad: but let me bless you
Who any ways have been the instruments
Of finding her again. Imoinda's found!
And every thing that I would have in her.
I have a thousand things to ask of her,
And she as many more to know of me;
But you have made me happier, I confess,
Acknowledge it, much happier, than I
Have words or power to tell you. Captain, you,
who most have wrong'd me, I forgive:
I will not say you have betrayed me now,
I'll think you but the minister of fate,
To bring me to my lov'd Imcinda here.
Let the fools
Who follow Fortune live upon her smiles;
All our prosperity is plac'd in love;
We have enough of that to make us happy.
This little spot of earth you stand upon,
Is more to me than the extended plains
Of my great father's kingdom; here I reign
In full delight, in joys to pow'r unknown,
Your love my empire, and your heart my throne.
VII.-JOY APPROACHING TO TRANSPORT.
O Joy, thou welcome stranger, twice three years I have not felt thy vital beam, but now
It warms my veins, and plays about my heart;
A fiery instinct lifts me from the ground,
And I could mount.
VIII. JOY BORDERING ON SORROW.
Desdemona.-My dear Othello!
Othello. It gives me wonder great as my content,
To see you here before me, O my soul's joy!
If after every tempest come such calms,
May the winds blow till they have waken'd death!
And let the labouring bark climb hills of seas
Olympus high, and duck again as low
As hell's from heav'n! If it were now to die,
'Twere now to be most happy, for I fear
My soul hath her content so absolute,
That not another comfort like to this
Succeeds in unknown fate.
Still betters what is done. When you speak, sweet,
I'd have you do it ever. When you sing,
I'd have you buy and sell so; so give alms,
Pray so; and, for the ordering your affairs,
To sing them to. When you do dance, I wish
A wave o' the sea, that you might ever do
Nothing but that; move still, still so,
And own no other function: each your doing,
So singular in each particular,
Crowns what you are doing in the present deeds,
That all your acts are queens.
X. PITY IN PLAINTIVE NARRATION.
York. And thus in triumph rode along the Duke, While all tongues cried-God save thee, Bolingbroke! Duchess.-Alas! poor Richard, where rides he the while? 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 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.
But heav'n hath a hand in those events;
To whose high will we bound our calm contents.
XI. PITY FOR A DEPARTED FRIEND.
ALAS! poor Yorick! I knew him, Horatio; a fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy: he hath borne me on his back a thousand times; and now how abhorred in my imągination it is! my gorge rises at it. Here hung those lips that I have kissed I know not how oft.
Where be your your flashes of
gibes now? your gambols? your songs? merriment, that were wont to set the table on a roar? Not one now to mock your own grinning? Quite chopfallen? Now get you to my lady's chamber, and tell her, let her paint an inch thick, to this favour she must come; make her laugh at that.—Hamlet.