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FROM

MERCHANT OF VENICE."

I'll hold thee any wager, When we are both accoutred like young men, I'll prove the prettier fellow of the two, And wear my dagger with the braver grace ; And speak between the change of man and boy, With a reed voice ; and turn two mincing steps Into a manly stride ; and speak of frays, Like a fine bragging youth ; and tell quaint lies, How honorable ladies sought my love, Which I denying, they fell sick and died, I could not do withal ; – then I'll repent, And wish, for all that, that I had not killed them : And twenty of these puny lies I 'll tell; That men shall swear I have discontinued school Above a twelvemonth : I have within my mind A thousand raw tricks of these bragging Jacks, Which I will practise.

SHAKESPEARE,

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His sermon never said or showed

That earth is foul, that heaven is gracious, Without refreshment on the road,

From Jerome or from Athanasius ; And sure a righteous zeal inspired The hand and head that penned and planned

them, For all who understood admired,

And some who did not understand them.

He wrote too, in a quiet way,

Small treatises, and smaller verses, And sage remarks on chalk and clay,

And hints to noble lords and nurses ; True histories of last year's ghost;

Lines to a ringlet or a turban ; And trifles for the “Morning Post”;

And nothings for Sylvanus Urban. He did not think all mischief fair,

Although he had a knack of joking; He did not make himself a bear,

Although he had a taste for smoking; And when religious sects ran mad,

He held, in spite of all his learning, That if a man's belief is bad,

It will not be improved by burning.

And he was kind, and loved to sit

In the low hut or garnished cottage, And praise the farmer's homely wit,

And share the widow's homelier pottage. At his approach complaint grew mild,

And when his hand unbarred the shutter The clammy lips of fever smiled

The welcome that they could not utter.

He always had a tale for me

Of Julius Cæsar or of Venus ;
From him I learned the rule of three,

Cat's-cradle, leap-frog, and Quæ genus.
I used to singe his powdered wig,

To steal the staff he put such trust in, And make the puppy dance a jig

When he began to quote Augustine.

Alack, the change! In vain I look

For haunts in which my boyhood trifled ; The level lawn, the trickling brook,

The trees I climbed, the beds I rifled ! The church is larger than before,

You reach it by a carriage entry ; It holds three hundred people more,

And pews are fitted for the gentry.

Sit in the vicar's seat; you 'll hear

The doctrine of a gentle Johnian,
Whose hand is white, whose voice is clear,
Whose tone is

very

Ciceronian.

From each she nicely culls with curious toil,
And decks the goddess with the glittering spoil.
This casket India's glowing gems unlocks,
And all Arabia breathes from yonder box.
The tortoise here and elephant unite,
Transformed to combs, the speckled and the white.
Here files of pins extend their shining rows,
Prufs, powders, patches, bibles, billets-doux.
Now awful beauty puts on all its arms;
The fair each moment rises in her charms,
Repairs her smiles, awakens every grace,
And calls forth all the wonders of her face;
Sees by degrees a purer blush arise,
And keener lightnings quicken in her eyes.
The busy sylphs surround their darling care,
These set the head, and those divide the hair,
Some fold the sleeve, whilst others plait the gown;
And Betty's praised for labors not her own.

ALEXANDER POPE.

A RECEIPT FOR SALAD.

To make this condiment your poet begs
The pounded yellow of two hard-boiled eggs ;
Two boiled potatoes, passed through kitchen sieve,
Smoothness and softness to the salad give;
Let onion atoms lurk within the bowl,
And, half suspected, animate the whole ;
Of mordent mustard add a single spoon,
Distrust the condiment that bites so soon ;
But deem it not, thou man of herbs, a fault
To add a double quantity of salt;
Four times the spoon with oil from Lucca crown,
And twice with vinegar, procured from town;
And lastly, o'er the flavored compound toss
A magic soupçon of anchovy sauce.
() green and glorious ! O herbaceous treat!
"T would tempt the dying anchorite to eat;
Back to the world he'd turn his fleeting soul,
Aud plunge his fingers in the salad-bowl ;

Serenely full, the epicure would say, “Fate cannot harm me, – I have dined to-day."

SYDNEY SMITH.

THE PEDLER'S PACK.

FROM

" THE WINTER'S TALE."

Enter AUTOLY CUS, singing.
LAWN as white as driven snow;
Cyprus black as e'er was crow;
Gloves as sweet as damask roses;
Masks for faces and for noses ;
Bugle bracelet, necklace-amber,
Perfume for a lady's chamber:
Golden quoifs and stomachers,
For my lads to give their dears;
Pins and poking-sticks of steel,
What maids lack from head to heel :
Come buy of me,come; come buy, come buy;
Buy, lads, or else your lasses cry:
Come buy.

SHAKESPEARE

METRICAL FEET.

TROCHEE trips from long to short;
From long to long in solemn sort
Slow Spondee stalks ; strong foot ! yet ill able
Ever to come up with Dactyl trisyllable.
lambics march from short to long;
With a leap and a bound the swift Anapæsts

throng;
One syllable long, with one short at each side,
Amphibrachys hastes with a stately stride ;-
First and last being long, middle short, Amphi-

macer

Strikes his thundering hoofs like a proud highbred racer.

SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE,

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I joy not in no earthly blisse ;

I weigh not Cresus' wealth a straw; For care, I care not what it is ;

I feare not fortune's fatal law; My mind is such as may not move For beautie bright, or force of love.

I wish but what I have at will ;

I wander not to seeke for more ; I like the plaine, I clime no hill ;

In greatest stormes I sitte on shore, And laugh at them that toile in vaine To get what must be lost againe.

MY MINDE TO ME A KINGDOM IS. My minde to me a kingdom is ;

Such perfect joy therein I finde As farre exceeds all earthly blisse

That God or nature hath assignde ;
Though much I want that most would have,
Yet still my minde forbids to crave.
Content I live; this is my stay, —

I seek no more than may suffice.
I presse to beare no haughtie sway;

Look, what I lack my mind supplies.
Loe, thus I triumph like a king,
Content with that my mind doth bring.
I see how plentie surfets oft,

And hastie clymbers soonest fall ; I see that such as sit aloft

Mishap doth threaten most of all. These get with toile, and keepe with feare ; Such cares my mind could never beare. No princely pompe nor welthie store,

No force to win the victorie, No wylie wit to salve a sore,

No shape to winne a lover's eye, To none of these I yceld as thrall; For why, my mind despiseth all. Some have too much, yet still they crave ;

I little have, yet seek no more.

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