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The regal palace, the luxurious board,
The liveried army, and the menial lord.
With age, with cares, with maladies oppress'd,
He seeks the refuge of monastic rest,

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,
This longing after immortality?

Or whence this secret dread and inward horror
Of falling into nought? Why shrinks the soul
Back on herself, and startles at destruction?
"Tis the Divinity that stirs within us;
"Tis Heaven itself that points out an hereafter,
And intimates eternity to man.

Eternity! Thou pleasing, dreadful thought!
Through what variety of untried being,

Through what new scenes and changes must we pass !
The wide, the unbounded prospect lies before me,
But shadows, clouds, and darkness rest upon it.
But will I hold: If there's a Power above us,

(And that there is, all nature cries aloud

Through all her works, he must delight in virtue;
And that which he delights in, must be happy.)

But when? or where? This world was made for Cæsar.
I'm weary of conjectures: This must end 'em.
Thus am I doubly arm'd: my death and life,
My bane and antidote, are both before me:
This in a moment brings me to an end;
But this informs me, I shall never die.
The soul, sccur'd in her existence, smiles
At the drawn dagger, and defies its point.
The stars shall fade away, the sun himself
Grow dim with age, and nature sink in years;
But thou shalt flourish in immortal youth,
Unhurt amidst the war of elements,

The wreck of matter, and the crush of worlds.
What means this heaviness that hangs upon me?
Nature oppress'd, and harass'd out with care,
Sinks down to rest. This once I'll favour her,
That my awaken'd soul may take her flight,
Renew'd in all her strength, and fresh with life,
An offering fit for heaven. Let guilt or fear
Disturb man's rest: Cato knows neither of 'em,
Indifferent in his choice to sleep or die.-Addison.

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;
It droppeth, as the gentle rain from heaven
Upon the place beneath: it is twice bless'd;
It blesseth him that gives, and him that takes:
'Tis mightiest in the mightiest; it becomes
The throned monarch better than his crown;
His sceptre shews the force of temporal power,
The attribute to awe and majesty,

Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings;
But mercy is above this sceptre'd sway,
It is enthroned in the heart of kings;

It is an attribute to God himself;

And earthly power doth then shew likest God's,
When mercy seasons justice. Therefore, Jew,
Though justice be thy plea, consider this,―
That, in the course of justice, none of us
Should see salvation; we do pray for mercy;
And that same prayer doth teach us all to render
The deeds of mercy. I have spoke thus much,
To mitigate the justice of thy plea:

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

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. This, 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,
A burden more than I can bear,
I set me down and sigh:

O life! thou art a galling load,
A long, a rough, a weary road,
To wretches such as I!
Dim-backward as I cast my view,
What sick'ning scenes appear!

What sorrows yet may pierce me thro'
Too justly I may fear!

Still caring, despairing,

Must be my bitter doom;

My woes here shall close ne'er
But with the closing tomb!

II.

Happy, ye sons of busy life,
Who, equal to the bustling strife,
No other view regard!

Ev'n when the wished end's deny'd,
Yet while the busy means are ply'd,
They bring their own reward:
Whilst I, a hope-abandon'd wight,
Unfitted with an aim,

Meet ev'ry sad returning night
And joyless morn the same;

You bustling, and justling,
Forget each grief and pain;
I, listless, yet restless,
Find every prospect vain.

III.

How blest the solitary's lot,
Who all-forgetting, all-forgot,

Within his humble cell.
The cavern wild with laughing roots,
Sits o'er his newly-gather'd fruits,
Beside his crystal well!

Or, haply, to his ev'ning thought,
By unfrequented stream,

The ways of men are distant brought,
A faint collected dream;

While praising and raising

His thoughts to heav'n on high,
As wand'ring, meand'ring,
He views the solemn sky.

IV.

Than I, no lonely hermit plac'd
Where never human footsteps trac❜d,
Less fit to play the part;
The lucky moment to improve,
And just to stop, and just to move,
With self-respecting art:

But, ah! those pleasures, loves, and joys,
Which I too keenly taste,

The solitary can despise,

Can want, and yet be blest!

He needs not, he heeds not,
Or human love or hate,
Whilst I here, must cry here
At perfidy ingrate!

V.

Oh! enviable, early days,

When dancing thoughtless pleasure's maze,
To care, to guilt unknown!
How ill-exchang'd for riper times,
To feel the follies, or the crimes,
Of others, or my own!
Ye tiny elves that guiltless sport,
Like linnets in the bush,
Ye little know the ills ye court,
When manhood is your wish!

The losses, the crosses,
That active man engages!
The fears all, the tears all,
Of dim declining ages!—Burns.

KATHERINE'S ADVICE TO WIVES.

Fie, fie! Unknit that threat'ning unkind brow;
And dart not scornful glances from those eyes,
To wound thy lord, thy king, thy governor:
It blots thy beauty, as frosts bite the meads;
Confounds thy fame, as whirlwinds shake fair buds;
And in no sense is meet, or amiable.

A woman moved, is like a fountain troubled,
Muddy, ill-seeming, thick, bereft of beauty:
And, while it is so, none so dry or thirsty
Will deign to sip, or touch one drop of it.
Thy husband is thy lord, thy life, thy keeper,

Thy head, thy sovereign: one that cares for thee,
And for thy maintenance: commits his body
To painful labour, both by sea and land;

To watch the night in storms, the day in cold,
While thou liest warm at home, secure and safe:
And craves no other tribute at thy hands,
But love, fair looks, and true obedience;
Too little payment for so great a debt.
Such duty as the subject owes the prince,
Even such, a woman oweth to her husband;
And, when she's froward, peevish, sullen, sour,
And not obedient to his honest will,
What is she, but a foul-contending rebel,
And graceless traitor to her loving lord?
I am ashamed, that women are so simple
To offer war where they should kneel for peace;
Or seek for rule, supremacy, and sway,
When they are bound to serve, love, and obey.
Why are our bodies soft, and weak and smooth,
Unapt to toil and trouble in the world;
But that our soft condition and our hearts,
Should well agree with our external parts?
Come, come, you froward and unable worms,
My mind hath been as big as one of yours,
My heart as great: my reason, haply, more,
To bandy word for word, and frown for frown;
But now, I see our lances are but straws;
Our strength as weak, our weakness past compare,
That seeming to be most, which we least are.
Then vail your stomachs, for it is no boot,

And place your hands below your husband's foot,
In token of which duty, if he please,

My hand is ready, may it do him ease.— -Shakspeare.

END.

LETTS, SON & STEER, Printers, 8, Royal Exchange and Old Swan Lane, London.

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