« ÎnapoiContinuați »
Not that I know that his Reverence was ever concerned, to my know
ledge; Though you and your come-rogues keep him out so late, in your
wicked College. You say, “You will eat grass on his grave!' A Christian eat grass ! Whereby you now confess yourself to be a goose, or an ass. But that 's as much as to say, That my Master should die before ye ! Well! Well! That 's as God pleases ! and I don't believe that 's a true
story! And so say, I told you so ! and you may go tell my Master! What care I! And I don't care who knows it ! 'Tis all one to MARY! Everybody knows that I love to tell truth, and shame the Devil ! I am but a poor servant; but I think Gentlefolks should be civil !
Besides, you found fault with our vittels, one day that you were here; I remember it was upon a Tuesday, of all days in the year!
And SAUNDERS, the Man, says, You are always jesting and mocking.
‘Mary,' said he, one day, as I was mending my Master's stocking, “My Master is so fond of that Minister, that keeps the School ! I thought my Master was a wise man; but that man makes him a fool!'
'SAUNDERS,' says I, 'I would rather than a quart of ale, He would come into our kitchen; and I would pin a dish-clout to his
And now, I must go, and get SAUNDERS to direct this letter !
Whereof I could say more to your Verses, if I could write written hand: And so I remain, in a civil way, Your servant to command,
A SONG FOR THE LUTE.
GENTLY, my Lute! move ev'ry string!
Soft as my sighs, reveal my pain ! While I, in plaintive Numbers sing
Of slighted vows, and cold disdain.
In vain, her Airs ! in vain, her art !
In vain, she frowns when I appear! Thy notes shall melt her frozen heart!
She cannot hate, if She can hear !
And see, She smiles! Through all the groves
Triumphant lö Peans sound!
Ye sportive Graces, dance around!
Ye list’ning oaks, bend to my Song!
Not Orpheus played a nobler Lay! Ye savages, about me throng!
Ye rocks, and harder hearts, obey!
She comes! She comes! relenting Fair!
To fill with joy my longing arms. What faithful Lover can despair,
Who thus with Verse and Music charms!
A HUNTING SONG.
BEHOLD, my friend! the rosy-fingered Morn,
With blushes on her face,
Peeps o'er yon azure hill !
Pearls from each bush distil !
Hark! Hark! The merry horn calls, Come away!'
Quit, quit thy downy bed!
Break from AMYNTA's arms !
That all, that all her charms (Though she 's as Venus fair !) can tempt thy stay!
Perplex thy soul no more with cares below!
For what will pelf avail ?
Thy courser paws the ground,
They spend their months around;
Try, Huntsmen ! all the brakes! spread all the plain!
Now, now, she 's gone away!
Strip! Strip! with speed pursue !
Who fain our sport would view,
Pour down, like a flood from the hills, brave Boys !
On the wings of the wind,
The merry beagles fly!
Ye shrill echoes, reply!
Ye rocks, woods, and caves, our music repeat !
The bright Spheres thus above,
A gay refulgent Train,
O'er yon celestial plain,
Now Puss threads the brakes, and heavily flies !
At the head of the pack
Old Fidler bears the bell !
And aloud rings her knell ;
In Life's dull round, thus we toil and we sweat!
Diseases, Grief, and Pain,
An implacable crew,
This moment is ours! Come, live while ye may !
What 's decreed by dark Fate
Is not in our own power !
Take the present kind hour!