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spoke my lines. Nor do not saw the air too much with your hand—thus; but use all gently; for in the very torrent, tempest, and (as I may say) whirlwind of your passion, you must acquire and beget a temperance that may give it smoothness. Oh! it offends me to the soul, to hear a robustious periwig-pated fellow tear a passion to tatters, to very rags, to split the ears of the groundlings; who (for the most part) are capable of nothing but inexplicable dumb show and noise : I could have such a fellow whipp'd for o'er-doing Termagant; it out-herods Herod. Pray you, avoid it.

Be not too tame, neither; but let your own discretion be your tutor; suit the action to the word, the word to the action; with this special observance, that you o'erstep not the modesty of nature : for anything so overdone is from the purpose of playing, whose end, both at the first, and now, was, and is, to hold, as ’twere, the mirror up to nature; to show virtue her own feature, scorn her own image, and the very age and body of the time, his form and pressure. Now, this overdone, or come tardy of, though it make the unskilful laugh, cannot but make the judicious grieve; the censure of one of which must, in your allowance, o'erweigh a whole theatre of others. Oh! there be players that I have seen play—and heard others praise, and that highly—not to speak it profanely, that, neither having the accent of Christians, nor the gait of Christian, Pagan, nor man, have so strutted and bellowed, that I have thought some of nature's journey

men had made men, and not made them well; they imitated humanity so abominably.

And let those that play your clowns, speak no more than is set down for them; for there be of them that will themselves laugh, to set on some quantity of barren spectators to laugh too, though, in the mean time, some necessary question of the play be then to be considered ; that's villanous; and shows a most pitiful ambition in the fool that uses it.



From harmony, from heavenly harmony

This universal frame began:
When Nature underneath a heap

Of jarring atoms lay,

And could not heave her head,
The tuneful voice was heard from high,

Arise, ye more than dead.
Then cold, and hot, and moist, and dry,
In order to their stations leap,

And Music's power obey. -
From harmony, from heavenly harmony

The universal frame began :
From harmony to harmony

Through all the compass of the notes it ran,
The diapason closing full in Man.

What passion cannot Music raise and quell?

When Jubal struck the chorded shell,
His listening brethren stood around,
And, wondering, on their faces fell

To worship that celestial sound.
Less than a God they thought there could not dwell

Within the hollow of that shell,

That spoke so sweetly and so well. What passion cannot Music raise and quell?

The trumpet's loud clangour

Excites us to arms,
With shrill notes of anger,

And mortal alarms.
The double, double, double beat

Of the thundering drum
Cries, “Hark! the foes come;
Charge, charge ! 'tis too late to retreat."

The soft complaining flute
In dying notes discovers

The woes of hopeless lovers,
Whose dirge is whisper'd by the warbling lute.

Sharp violins proclaim
Their jealous pangs, and desperation,
Fury, frantic indignation,

Depth of pains, and height of passion,

For the fair disdainful dame.

But oh! what art can teach,

What human voice can reach,
The sacred organ's praise ?
Notes inspiring holy love,
Notes that wing their heavenly ways

To mend the choirs above.

Orpheus could lead the savage race;
And trees uprooted left their place,

Sequacious of the lyre :
But bright Cecilia raised the wonder higher :
When to her organ vocal breath was given,
An angel heard, and straight appear'd,

Mistaking earth for heaven.


As from the power of sacred lays

The spheres began to move,
And sung the great Creator's praise

To all the bless'd above ;
So when the last and dreadful hour
This crumbling pageant shall devour,
The trumpet shall be heard on high,
The dead shall live, the living die,
And Music shall untune the sky.





BUT “ Kitty Palmer”—not a word
Beyond,—the mossy head-stone's showing;
Not even a date ; it seems absurd,
To care for one, one can't be knowing ;
Yet I can't help it; she lies nigh
The quiet road I travel often,
And always, when I pass her by,
T'wards Kitty there, my heart will soften.

There's nothing there her age to say;
Young? old ? all's hid by time's thick curtain ;
Was she a babe, scarce born a day?
A girl ? a woman ? all's uncertain.
Was she maid, wife, or widow ? Well,

That knowledge—we must do without it ;
We know there's nothing here to tell,
And that's all we can know about it.

What conquests were hers? Did she reign,
A child, but in her home's affections,
Or, older grown, seek not in vain,
Heart-triumphs, for sweet recollections ?

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