The regal palace, the luxurious board, Grief aids disease, remember'd folly stings And his last sighs reproach the faith of Kings.—Johnson. CATO'S SOLILOQUY. It must be so; Plato, thou reasonest well; Else whence this pleasing hope, this fond desire, Or whence this secret dread and inward horror "Tis Heaven itself that points out an hereafter, Eternity! Thou pleasing, dreadful thought! Through what new scenes and changes must we pass! Through all her works, he must delight in virtue; But when? or where? This world was made for Cæsar. The wreck of matter, and the crush of worlds. LAUNCELOT GOBBO'S SOLILOQUY. Certainly, my conscience will serve me to run from this Jew, my master:The fiend is at mine elbow; and tempts me, saying to me, Gobbo, Launcelot Gobbo, good Launcelot, or good Gobbo, or good Launcelot Gobbo, use your legs, take the start, run away: My conscience says,-no; take heed, honest Launcelot; take heed, honest Gobbo; or, as aforesaid, honest Launcelot Gobbo; do not run; scorn running with thy heels-well, the most courageous fiend bids me pack; via! says the fiend; away says the fiend, for the heavens ; rouse up a brave mind, says the fiend, and run. Well, my conscience, hanging about the neck of my heart, says very wisely to me,-my honest friend Launcelot, being an honest man's son, or rather an honest woman's son; for, indeed, my father did something smack, something grow to, he had a kind of taste; well, my conscience says,-Launcelot, budge not; budge, says the fiend; budge not, says my conscience; conscience, says I, you counsel well: fiend, says I, you counsel well; to be ruled by my conscience, I should stay with the Jew, my master, who, (God bless the mark!) is a kind of devil: and to run away from the Jew, I should be ruled by the fiend, who, saving your reverence, is the devil himself. Certainly, the Jew is the very devil incarnation; and, in my conscience, my conscience is but a kind of hard conscience, to offer to counsel me to stay with the Jew.-The fiend gives the more friendly counsel. I will run, fiend; my heels are at your commandment, I will run.Shakspeare. ON THE QUALITY OF MERCY. The quality of mercy is not strain'd ; Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings; It is an attribute to God himself; And earthly power doth then shew likest God's, Which if thou follow, this strict court of Venice Must needs give sentence 'gainst the merchant there.— ON THE ART OF PUFFING. Shakspeare. As to the puff oblique, or puff by implication, it is too various and extensive to be illustrated by an instance; it attracts in titles, and presumes in patents; it lurks in the limitation of a subscription, and invites in the assurance of crowd, and in 'commodation at public places: it delights to draw forth concealed merit, with a most disinterested assiduity; and sometimes wears a countenance of smiling censure and tender reproach. It has a wonderful memory for parliamentary debates, and will often give the whole speech of a favoured member with the most flattering accuracy. But, above all, it is a great dealer in reports and suppositions. It has the earliest intelligence of intended preferments that will reflect honor on the patrons; and This, embryo promotions of modest gentlemen, who know nothing of the matter themselves. It can hint a ribband for implied services, in the air of a common report; and with the carelessness of a casual paragraph, suggest officers into commands,-to which they have no pretension but their wishes. Sir, is the last principal class of the art of puffing,-an art, which I hope you will now agree with me, is of the highest dignity;-yielding a tablature of benevolence and public spirit; befriending equally, trade, gallantry, criticism, and politics; the applause of genius; the register of charity; the triumph of heroism; the self-defence of contractors; the fame of orators; and the gazette of ministers.-R. B. Sheridan. DESPONDENCY. AN ODE. I. Oppress'd with grief, oppress'd with care, O life! thou art a galling load, What sorrows yet may pierce me thro' Still caring, despairing, Must be my bitter doom; My woes here shall close ne'er II. Happy, ye sons of busy life, Ev'n when the wished end's deny'd, Meet ev'ry sad returning night You bustling, and justling, III. How blest the solitary's lot, Who all-forgetting, all-forgot, Within his humble cell. Or, haply, to his ev'ning thought, The ways of men are distant brought, While praising and raising His thoughts to heav'n on high, IV. Than I, no lonely hermit plac'd But, ah! those pleasures, loves, and joys, The solitary can despise, Can want, and yet be blest! He needs not, he heeds not, V. Oh! enviable, early days, When dancing thoughtless pleasure's maze, The losses, the crosses, KATHERINE'S ADVICE TO WIVES. A woman moved, is like a fountain troubled, Thy head, thy sovereign: one that cares for thee, To watch the night in storms, the day in cold, And place your hands below your husband's foot, My hand is ready, may it do him ease.— -Shakspeare. END. LETTS, SON & STEER, Printers, 8, Royal Exchange and Old Swan Lane, London. |