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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

Tell where I lie.

Pope.

Grabschrift des Silvius.

Hier lieget Silvius, der nid)ts umsonst gethan :
Es schmerzt ihn, daß man dies umsonst hier lesen kann.

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, dolct.

K.

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 mem'ry 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! If thou embowel me to-day, I'll give you leave 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? I lie; 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.

SHAKSPEARE.

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