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Ode on Solitude.

Happy the man, whose wish and care
A few paternal acres bound ;
Content to breathe his native air
In his own ground.

Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread,
Whose flocks supply him with attire;
Whose trees in summer yield him shade,
In winter fire.

Blest, who can unconcern'dly find
Hours, days, and years slide soft away,
In health of body, peace of mind,
Quiet by day,

Sound sleep by night; study and ease
Together mixt; sweet recreation ;
And innocence, which most doth please,
With meditation.

Thus let me live, unseen, unknown,
Thus unlamented let me die,
Steal from the world, and not a stone

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Solitarius.

Gratulor, qvi spes modicas avito

Terminans fundo nihil adlaborat;

Cui placet caelum patrium suiqve
Limes agelli ;

Arva cui donant Cererem, gregesqve

Lacteum humorem niveosqve amictus,

Cui per aestatem parat ulmus umbras,
Lignaqve brumae.

Huic bene est, cui non fugit inqvieto

Hora delabensqve dies et annus:

Integer membris animoqve sanus
Nocte salubres

Qvi capit somnos, vigilatqve laetus :

Qvem iuvant libri, iuvat otiari

In loco, et vitae decus innocenti
Iungere Musas.

Sic ego obscurus procul urbe vivam ;
Sic mori possim lacrumante nullo ;
Neu lapis sedes cinerum supremas
Imprimat index.
T. S. E.

Epitaphium Hyperphronis.

Hic situs est, qvi nil temere unqvam fecit, Hyperphron : Advena, qvom temere haec sunt tibi lecta, dolet.

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To Mary in Heaven.

Thou lingering star, with less'ning ray
That lov'st to greet the early morn,
Again thou usherest in the day
My Mary from my soul was torn.
O Mary, dear departed shade !
Where is thy place of blissful rest?
See'st thou thy lover lowly laid ?
Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast ?

That sacred hour can I forget,
Can I forget the hallowed grove,
Where by the winding Ayr we met,
To live one day of parting love ?
Eternity will not efface
Those records dear of transports past;
Thy image at our last embrace —
Ah, little thought we *twas our last!

Ayr gurgling kiss'd his pebbled shore,
O'erhung with wild woods thick'ning green ;
The fragrant birch and hawthorn hoar
Twined amorous round the raptured scene ;
The flowers sprang wanton to be prest,
The birds sang love on every spray ;
Till too, too soon, the glowing west
Proclaim'd the speed of winged day.

Still o'er these scenes my memory wakes,
And fondly broods with miser care;

Time but the impression deeper makes,
As streams their channels deeper wear.

Ad Umbram Mariae.

Stella recedentem iam iamqve minutior orbem
Obvia luciferis una morata rotis,
Illa dies duce te volvente relabitur anno
Qva fuit e nostro rapta Maria sinu.
O animarum adscripta choro, dilecta Maria,
Illa domus, felix qva reqviescis, ubi est ?
Contemplaris humi prostratum in pulvere, et audis
Qvanto se gemitu torqueat intus amans ?

Mene sacri fas est oblivia temporis unqvam
Ducere, mene sacrum non meminisse nemus,
Qva patriae propter flexus convenimus undae,
Extremumqve diem mutuus egit amor ?
Nulla aetas animo monumenta perennia demet;
Nec mihi deliciae praeteriere meae.
Non species omnis tua vanuit, oscula qvalis
Ultima, nec nobis ultima visa, dabas.

Lympha susurrantes riparum amplexa lapillos
Fronde superfusis ibat opaca vadis ;
Spinaque cana vagos miscebat odoraqve flexus
Betula per laetum, par geniale, locum.
Germina surgebant tangi poscentia ; nec qvi
Ramus amorem avium non resonaret, erat:
Dum rubet Hesperia caelum de parte, diemqve
Heu nimis admissa nuntiat ire rota.

Illis deliciis etiamnum laetor, et illis
Inmoror, occultas inter avarus opes.
Tempore crescit adhuc constantior intus imago,
Altior ire latex tempore qvalis amat.
S

My Mary, dear departed shade!
Where is thy place of blissful rest ?

See'st thou thy lover lowly laid ?
Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast ?

BURNs.

Falstaff*s Recovery.

Fals. Embowelled! Ifthou embowel me to-day, I'll give youleave to powder me, and eat me too, to-morrow. 'Sblood, 'twas time to counterfeit, or that hot termagant Scot had paid me scot and lot too. Counterfeit ? Ilie ; I am no counterfeit. To die is to be a counterfeit; for he is but the counterfeit of a man who hath not the life of a man; but to counterfeit dying, when a man thereby liveth, is to be no counterfeit, but the true and perfect image of life indeed. The better part of valour is—discretion, in the which better part I have saved my life. Zounds, I am afraid of this gunpowder Percy, though he be dead. How, if he should counterfeit too, and rise ? I am afraid he would prove the better counterfeit. Therefore I'll make him sure ; yea, and I'll swear I killed him. Why may not he rise as well as I ? Nothing confutes me but eyes, and nobody sees me, Therefore, sirrah (stabbing him), with a new wound in your thigh, come you along with me.

SHARSPEARE.

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