And too impatiently stamped with your foot : man. It will not let you eat, nor talk, nor sleep, POR. Brutus is wise, and were he not in health, He would embrace the means to come by it. BRU. Why, so I do : — good Portia, go to bed. POR. Is Brutus sick, and is it physical To walk unbraced, and suck up the humors Of the dank morning? What, is Brutus sick, – And will he steal out of his wholesome bed, To dare the vile contagion of the night, And tempt the rheumy and unpurgéd air To add unto his sickness? No, my Brutus ; You have some sick offence within your mind, Which, by the right and virtue of my place, I ought to know of: And upon my knees I charm you, by my once commended beauty, By all your vows of love, and that great vow Which did incorporate and make us one, That you unfold to me, yourself, your half, Why you are heavy; and what men to-night Have had resort to you, for here have been Some six or seven, who did hide their faces Even from darkness. Of your good pleasure? If it be no more, BRU. You are my true and honorable wife; POR. If this were true, then should I know this secret. I grant I am a woman; but, withal, A woman that Lord Brutus took to wife : VI. "But I," he replied, "have promised another, when love was free, To love her alone, alone, who alone and afar loves me." VII. "Why, that," she said, "is no reason. always free, I am told. Love's Will you vow to be safe from the headache on Tuesday, and think it will hold ?" VIII. "But you," he replied, "have a daughter, a young little child, who was laid In your lap to be pure; so I leave you the angels would make me afraid." IX. The angels "O that," she said, "is no reason. keep out of the way; And Dora, the child, observes nothing, although you should please me and stay." X. 66 Why, now, XX. At which he rose up in his anger, -as white as the Why, now, you no longer are fatal, but ugly and And immortal as every great soul is that strughateful, I swear.' gles, endures, and fulfils. XI. XXI. "These "I love my Walter profoundly, you, Maude, though you faltered a week, At which she laughed out in her scorn, men! O, these men overnice, Who are shocked if a color not virtuous is frankly For the sake of... what was it? an eyebrow? or, put on by a vice." less still, a mole on a cheek? XXIII. XIII. "I determined to prove to yourself that, whate'er you might dream or avow "What reason had you, and what right, — I appeal to your soul from my life, To find me too fair as a woman? Why, sir, I am By illusion, you wanted precisely no more of me than you have now. pure, and a wife. "If a man finds a woman too fair, he means sim- XVI. "Too fair?-not unless you misuse us! and surely XVII. pray your attention ! - I have a poor word in my head I must utter, though womanly custom would set it down better unsaid. XIX. XVIII. "You grew, sir, pale to impertinence, once when I showed you a ring. You kissed my fan when I dropped it. No matter! I've broken the thing. "You did me the honor, perhaps, to be moved at my side now and then In the senses, XXII. "And since, when all 's said, you 're too noble to stoop to the frivolous cant About crimes irresistible, virtues that swindle, betray, and supplant, XXIV. "There! Look me full in the face! - in the face. Understand, if you can, That the eyes of such women as I am are clean as the palm of a man. Flashes the lovelight, increasing the glory, Beaming from bright eyes with warmth of the soul, Telling of trust and content the sweet story, King, king, crown me the king: Home is the kingdom, and Love is the king! Richer than miser with perishing treasure, Served with a service no conquest could bring; Happy with fortune that words cannot measure, Light-hearted I on the hearthstone can sing. King, king, crown me the king: Home is the kingdom, and Love is the king. REV. WILLIAM RANKIN DURYEA. A SHEPHERD'S LIFE. FROM "THIRD PART OF HENRY VI." KING HENRY. O God! methinks, it were a happy life, To be no better than a homely swain ; To carve out dials quaintly, point by point, So many days my ewes have been with young; THE FIRESIDE. DEAR Chloe, while the busy crowd, Be called our choice, we 'll step aside, From the gay world we 'll oft retire Where love our hours employs ; If solid happiness we prize, And they are fools who roam; And that dear hut, our home. Our portion is not large, indeed; But then how little do we need, For nature's calls are few; In this the art of living lies, To want no more than may suffice, And make that little do. We'll therefore relish with content To be resigned when ills betide, And pleased with favors given, Dear Chloe, this is wisdom's part, This is that incense of the heart, Whose fragrance smells to heaven. NATHANIEL COTTON. |