Officious,' innocent, sincere,

Of every friendless name the friend.

Yet still he fills affection's eye,
Obscurely wise, and coarsely kind;
Nor, letter'd arrogance, deny
Thy praise to merit unrefin'd.

When fainting Nature call'd for aid,
And hov'ring Death prepar'd the blow,
His vigorous remedy display'd

The power of art without the show.

In Misery's darkest caverns known,
His ready help was ever nigh,
Where hopeless Anguish pour'd his groan,
And lonely want retir'd to die.

No summons mock'd by chill delay,
No petty gains disdain'd by pride;
The modest wants of every day
The toil of every day supply'd.

His virtues walk'd their narrow round,
Nor made a pause, nor left a void;
And sure the Eternal Master found
His single talent well employ'd.

The busy day, the peaceful night,
Unfelt, uncounted, glided by;

His frame was firm, his powers were bright,
Though now his eightieth year was nigh.
1 officious, kind, obliging.

Then, with no throbs of fiery pain,
No cold gradations of decay,

Death broke at once the vital chain,
And freed his soul the nearest way.

AN ODE TO HIMSELF.

Ben Jonson.

WHERE dost thou careless lie

Buried in ease and sloth? Knowledge that sleeps, doth die:

And this security,

It is the common moth

That eats on wits and arts, and so destroys them both.

Are all the Aonian springs 1

Dried up? lies Thespia 2 waste?

Doth Clarius' harp want strings,

That not a nymph now sings?

Or droop they as disgraced,

To see their seats and bowers by chattering pies defaced?

If hence thy silence be,

As 'tis too just a cause,

Let this thought quicken thee:
Minds that are great and free

Should not on fortune pause;

'Tis crown enough to virtue still, her own applause.

1 Fountains sacred to the Muses near Mount Helicon.

2 An ancient town near Helicon.

3 Apollo.

SONG.

From THE PLEASANT COMODIE OF PATIENT GRISSILL.

Thomas Dekker.

ART thou poor, yet hast thou golden slumbers!
O sweet content!

Art thou rich, yet is thy mind perplexed?
O punishment!

Dost thou laugh to see how fools are vexed!
To add to golden numbers, golden numbers?
O sweet content, O sweet content.

Work apace, apace, apace, apace;
Honest labor bears a lovely face;

Then hey nonny, nonny; hey nonny, nonny.

Canst drink the waters of the crisped spring?
O sweet content!

Swim'st thou in wealth, yet sink'st in thine own tears?
O punishment!

Then he that patiently want's burden bears,
No burden bears, but is a king, a king:

O sweet content, O sweet content.

Work apace, apace, apace, apace;

Honest labor bears a lovely face;

Then hey nonny, nonny; hey nonny, nonny.

TO ALTHEA - FROM PRISON.

Richard Lovelace,

WHEN Love, with unconfined wings,
Hovers within my gates,
And my divine Althea brings
To whisper at the grates;
When I lie tangled in her hair
And fettered to her eye,

The birds that wanton in the air
Know no such liberty.

When flowing cups run swiftly round
With no allaying Thames,

Our careless heads with roses crown'd,
Our hearts with loyal flames;
When thirsty grief in wine we steep,

When healths and draughts go freeFishes, that tipple in the deep,

Know no such liberty.

When, linnet-like confinèd, I

With shriller throat shall sing

The sweetness, mercy, majesty,

And glories of my king;

When I shall voice aloud, how good
He is, how great should be,
Enlarged winds, that curl the flood,
Know no such liberty.

Stone walls do not a prison make,

Nor iron bars a cage;
Minds innocent and quiet take
That for an hermitage;
If I have freedom in my love,
And in my soul am free,
Angels alone, that soar above,
Enjoy such liberty.

TELL ME WHERE IS FANCY BRED.

From THE MERCHANT OF VENICE.

William Shakespeare.

TELL me where is Fancy bred,

Or in the heart or in the head?
How begot, how nourished?
Reply, reply.

It is engender'd in the eyes,
With gazing fed; and Fancy dies
In the cradle where it lies:

Let us all ring fancy's knell;
I'll begin it,-Ding, dong, bell.
Ding, dong, bell.