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By clam'rous appetites no longer teas'd,
Nor tedious bills of charges and repairs.
But ah! where are his rents, his coming in?
Ay ! now you've made the rich man poor indeed.
Robb'd of his gods, what has he left behind?
Oh, cursed lust of gold! when for thy sake,
The fool throws up his interest in both worlds;
First starv'd in this, then damn'd in that to come.
How shocking must thy summons be, Oh Death,
To him that is at ease in his possessions;
Who counting on long years of pleasure here,
Is quite unfurnish'd for that world to come!
In that dread moment, how the frantic soul
Raves round the walls of her clay tenement;
Runs to each avenue, and shrieks for help,
But shrieks in vain! How wishfully she looks
On all she's leaving, now no longer hers!
A little longer, yet a little longer.

Oh! might she stay to wash away her strains,
And fit her for her passage. Mournful sight!
Her very eyes weep blood; and every groan
She heaves is big with horror. But the foe,
Like a staunch murd'rer, steady to his purpose,
Pursues her close through every lane of life,
Nor misses once the track, but presses on;
Till forc'd at last to the tremendous verge,
At once she sinks to everlasting rnin.
Sure 'tis a serious thing to die! My soul!
What a strange moment must it be, when near
Thy journey's end, thou hast the gulph in view!
That awful gulph, no mortal e'er repass'd
To tell what's doing on the other side.
Nature runs back, and shudders at the sight,
And every life-string bleeds at thought of parting:
For part they must; Body and Soul must part;
Fond couple! link'd more close than wedded pair.
This wings its way to its Almighty source,
The witness of its actions, now its Judge;
That drops into the dark and noisome grave,
Like a disabled pitcher of no use.

If death was nothing, and nought after death;
If when men died, at once they ceas'd to be-

Returning to the barren womb of nothing,

Whence first they sprung; then might the debauchee Untrembling mouth the heavens :-Then might the drunkard

Reel over his full bowl, and when 'tis drain'd,

Fill up another to the brim, and laugh

At the poor bugbear death :-Then might the wretch

That's weary of the world, and tir'd of life,

At once give each inquietude the slip,

By stealing out of being when he pleas'd,
And by what way, whether by hemp or steel,

Death's thousand doors stand open. Who could force

The ill-pleas'd guest to sit out his full time,
Or blame him if he goes? Sure he does well,
That helps himself as timely as he can,,
When able.-But if there is an hereafter,
And that there is, conscience, uninfluenc'd,
And suffer'd to speak out, tells ev'ry man;
Then must it be an awful thing to die;

Death's shafts fly thick: here falls the village swain;
And there his pamper'd lord.-The cup goes round,
And who so artful as to put it by?

'Tis long since death had the majority;
Yet strange! the living lay it not to heart,

See yonder maker of the dead man's bed,

The sexton, hoary-headed chronicle,

Of hard, unmeaning face, down which ne'er stole
A gentle tear; with mattock in his hand;

Digs through whole rows of kindred and acquaintance,
By far his juniors.-Scarce a skull's cast up,
But well he knew its owner, and can tell
Some passage of his life.- -Thus hand in hand
The sot has walk'd with death twice twenty years;
And yet ne'er yonker on the green laughs louder,
Or clubs a smuttier tale:- -when drunkards meet,
None sings a merrier catch, or lends a hand

More willing to his cup.- -Poor wretch; he minds not,
That soon some trusty brother of the trade
Shall do for him what he has done for thousands.
-On this side, and on that, men see their friends
Drop off, like leaves in autumn; yet launch out
Into fantastic schemes, which the long livers
In the world's hale and undegen'rate days
Could scarce have leisure for.-
Never to think of death and of ourselves
At the same time; as if to learn to die
Where no concern of ours.

-Fools that we are,

Here are the wise, the generous, and the brave,
The just, the good, the worthless, and profane;
The downright clown, and perfectly well bred;
The fool, the churl, the scoundrel, and the mean.
The supple statesman, and the patriot stern;
The wreck of nations, and the spoils of time,
With all the lumber of six thousand years.-Blair.

KING HENRY VI. MORALIZING ON THE BATTLE.
This battle fares like to the morning's war,
When dying clouds contend with growing light;
What time the shepherd, blowing of his nails,
Can neither call it perfect day, nor night.

Now sways
it this way, like a mighty sea,
Forced by the tide to combat with the wind;
Now sways it that way, like the self-same sea,
Forced to retire by fury of the wind:

Sometime, the flood prevails; and then the wind;

Now, one the better; then another best;
Both tugging to be victors, breast to breast,
Yet neither conqueror, nor conquered;
So is the equal poise of the fell war,
Here on this molehill will I sit me down.
To whom God will, there be the victory!
For Margaret, my queen, and Clifford too,
Have chid me from the battle; swearing both,
They prosper best of all when I am thence.
'Would I were dead! if God's good will were so ;
For what is in this world, but grief and woe?
O God! methinks, it were a happy life,
To be no better than a homely swain;
To sit upon a hill, as I do now,

To carve out dials quaintly, point by point,
Thereby to see the minutes how they run:
How many make the hour full complete,
How many hours bring about the day,
How many days will finish up the year,
How many years a mortal man may live,
When this is known, then to divide the times;
So many
hours must I tend my flock;
So many hours must I take my rest;
So many hours must I contemplate;

So

many hours must I sport myself;

So many days my ewes have been with young;
So many weeks ere the poor fools will yean;

So many years ere I shall shear the fleece;

So minutes, hours, days, weeks, months and years,
Pass'd over to the end they were created,

Would bring white hairs unto a quiet grave.

Ah, what a life were this! How sweet! How lovely!
Gives not the hawthorn bush a sweeter shade

To shepherds, looking on their silly sheep,
Than doth a rich embroider'd canopy

To kings, that fear their subjects' treachery?
O, yes, it doth; a thousand fold it doth.

And to conclude the shepherd's homely curds,
His cold thin drink out of his leathern bottle,
His wonted sleep under a fresh tree's shade,
All which secure and sweetly he enjoys,
So far beyond a Prince's delicates;

His viands sparkling in a golden cup,

His body couched in a curious bed,

When care, mistrust, and treason wait on him.-Shakspeare.

ESSAY ON MAN.

All are but parts of one stupendous whole,

Whose body nature is, and God the soul:

That chang'd through all, and yet in all the same;

Great in the earth, as in th' ethereal frame:

Warms in the sun, refreshes in the breeze,

Glows in the stars, and blossoms in the trees,

Lives through all life, extends through all extent,
Spreads undivided, operates unspent,
Breathes in our soul, informs our mortal part,
As full, as perfect, in a hair as heart!
As full, as perfect, in vile man that mourns,
As the wrapt seraph that adores and burns;
To Him on high, no low, no great, no small;
He fills, he bounds, connects, and equals all.
-Cease then, nor order imperfections name:
Our proper bliss depends on what we blame,
Know thy own point: This kind, this true degree
Of blindness, weakness, heaven bestows on thee,
Submit-In this, or any other sphere,

Secure to be as blest as thou canst bear:
Safe in the hand of one disposing power,
Or in the natal, or the mortal hour.
All nature is but art unknown to thee;

All chance, direction, which thou canst not see:
All discord, harmony, not understood;

All partial, evil, universal good:

And, spite of pride in erring reason's spite,

One truth is clear, "WHATEVER IS, IS RIGHT."

Vice is a monster of so frightful mien,
As to be hated, needs but to be seen;
Yet, seen too oft, familiar with her face,
We first endure, they pity, then embrace.
Virtuous and vicious ev'ry man must be;
Few in the extreme, but all in the degree:
The rogue and fool, by fits is fair and wise;
And ev❜n the best, by fits, what they despise.
"Tis but by parts we follow good or ill;
For, vice or virtue, self directs it still;
Each individual seeks a sev'ral goal;

But Heaven's great view is one, and that the whole.-Pope.

MARK ANTHONY'S ORATION ON THE BODY OF CESAR.

Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears;

I come to bury Cæsar, not to praise him.

The evil, that men do, lives after them;
The good is oft interred with their bones;

So let it be with Cæsar. The noble Brutus
Hath told you, Cæsar was ambitious:
If it were so, it was a grievous fault;
And grievously hath Cæsar answered it.
Here, under leave of Brutus, and the rest,
(For Brutus is an honorable man;
So are they all, all honorable men ;)
Come I to speak in Cæsar's funeral.
He was my friend, faithful and just to me:
But Brutus says, he was ambitious;

And Brutus is an honorable man.

He hath brought many captives home to Rome,

Whose ransoms did the general coffers fill:
Did this in Cæsar seem ambitious?

When that the poor have cried, Cæsar hath wept :
Ambition should be made of sterner stuff:
Yet Brutus says, he was ambitious;
And Brutus is an honorable man.
You all did see, that on the Lupercal,
I thrice presented him a kingly crown,

Which he did thrice refuse. Was this ambition?
Yet Brutus says, he was ambitious;
And, sure, he is an honorable man.

I speak not to disprove what Brutus spoke,
But here I am to speak what I do know.

You all did love him once, not without cause;
What cause withholds you then to mourn for him?
O judgment, thou art fled to brutish beasts,

And men have lost their reason!-Bear with me;
My heart is in the coffin there with Cæsar,

And I must pause till it come back to me.- -Shakspeare.

PROTOGENES AND APELLES.

When poets wrote, and painter drew,
As Nature pointed out the view;

E'er Gothic forms were known in Greece,
To spoil the well-proportion'd piece;
And in our verse e'er monkish rhymes
Had jangl'd their fantastic chimes;
E'er on the flow'ry lands of Rhodes

Those Knights had fix'd their dull abodes,
Who knew not much to paint or write,
Nor cared to pray, nor dared to fight;
Protogenes, historians note,

Liv'd there, a burgess scot and lot;
And, as old Pliny's writings show,

Apelles did the same at Co.

Agreed these points of time and place,
Proceed we in the present case.

Picqu'd by Protogenes' fame,
From Co to Rhodes Apelles came;
To see a rival and a friend,
Prepared to censure or command,
Here to absolve, and there object,
As art with candour might direct,
He sails, he lands, he comes, he rings;
His servants follow with the things:
Appears the governante of th' house:
For such in Greece were much in use;
If young or handsome, yea or no,
Concerns not me, or thee to know.

Does 'squire Protogenes live here?
Yes, Sir, says she, with gracious air,
And curt'sey low; but just call'd out
By lords peculiarly devout;

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