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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.

[Comes forward with a roll of paper and a sword.]
The soul, secur'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.


I do remember, when the fight was done,
When I was dry with rage and extreme toil,
Breathless and faint, leaning upon my sword,
Came there a certain lord, neat, trimly dress’d,
Fresh as a bridegroom; and his chin, new reap'd,
Show'd like a stubble land at harvest home.
He was perfumed like a milliner ;
And 'twixt his finger and his thumb he held
A pouncet-box, which ever and anon

and took't away again ;
Who, therewith angry, when it next came there,
Took it in snuff. And still he smild and talk'd
And as the soldiers bare dead bodies by,
He call'd them untaught knaves, unmannerly
To bring a slovenly, unhandsome corse
Betwixt the wind and his nobility.
With many holiday and lady terms
He question’d me: among the rest, demanded
My prisoners, in your Majesty's behalf.
I then, all smarting with my wounds, being gall'd
To be so pester'd with a popinjay,
Out of my grief and my impatience,
Answer'd negligently, I know not what-
He should, or should not ; for he made me mad,

To see him shine so brisk, and smell so sweet,
And talk so like a waiting-gentlewoman,
Of guns, and drums, and wounds (God save the mark !);
And telling me the sovereign'st thing on earth
Was spermaceti for an inward bruise ;
And that it was great pity, so it was,
This villanous saltpetre should be digg'd
Out of the bowels of the harmless earth,
Which many a good tall fellow had destroy'd
So cowardly: and, but for these vile guns,
He would himself have been a soldier.


Hood. Well, the country's a pleasant place, sure enough, for people's that's

country born, And useful, no doubt, in a natural way, for growing our grass and our


It was kindly meant of my cousin Giles, to write and invite me down, Though, as yet, all I've seen of a pastoral life only makes one more partial

to Town. At first I thought I was really come down into all sorts of rural bliss, For Porkington Place, with its cows, and its pigs, and its poultry, looks

not much amiss ; There's something about a dairy farm, with its different kinds of live

stock, That puts one in mind of Paradise, and Adam and his innocent flock; But somehow the good old Elysium Fields have not been well handed

down, And, as yet, I have found no fields to prefer to dear Leicester Fields up

in Town.

To be sure it is pleasant to walk in the meads, and so I should like for

miles, If it wasn't for clodpoles of carpenters that put up such crooked stiles ; For the bars jut out, and you must jut out, till you're almost broken in


If you clamber, you're certain sure of a fall, and you stick if you try to

creep through. Of course, in the end, one learns how to climb without constant tumbles


But still as to walking so stylishly, it's pleasanter done about Town. There's a way, I know, to avoid the stiles, and that's by a walk in a

lane : And I did find a very nice shady one, but I never dar'd go there again ;

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For who should I meet but a rampaging bull, that wouldn't be kept in

the pound, A-trying to toss the whole world at once, by sticking his horns in the

ground. And that, by the bye, is another thing that pulls rural pleasures downEv'ry day in the country is cattle-day, and there's only two up in Town. Then I've rose with the sun, to go brushing away at the first early pearly

dew, And to meet Aurory, or whatever's her name -and I always got wetted

through; My shoes are like sops, and I caught a bad cold, and a nice draggle-tail

to my gowns That's not the way that we bathe our feet, or wear our pearls, up in

Town ! As for picking flow'rs—I have tried at a hedge, sweet eglantine roses to

snatch, But, mercy on us ! how nettles will sting, and how the long brambles

do scratch! Besides hitching my hat on a nasty thorn that tore all the bows from the

crown; One may walk long enough without hats branching off, or losing one's

bows, about Town. But worse than that; in a long rural walk, suppose that it blows up



And all at once you discover yourself in a real St. Swithin's Lane ;
And while you're running, all duck'd and drown'd, and pelted with six-

penny drops, " Fine weather,” you hear the farmers say—“ a nice growing show'r for

the crops !” But who's to crop me another new hat, or grow me another new gown? For you can't take a shilling fare with a plough, as you do with the

hackneys in Town. Then my nevies, too, they must drag me off to go with them gathering nuts, And we always set out by the longest way, and return by the shortest cuts. Short cuts, indeed! But it's nuts to them, to get a poor lustyish aunt To scramble through gaps, or jump over a ditch, when they're morally

certain she can't; For whenever I get in some awkward scrape (and it's almost daily the

case), Though they don't laugh out, the mischievous brats, I see the hooray!

in their face. There's the other day, for my sight is short, and I saw what was green

beyond, And thought it was all terry firmer and grass, till I walk'd in the duck

weed pond. Or perhaps when I've pully-haul'd up a bank, they see me come launch

ing down As none but a stout London female can do as is come a first time out of


behind ;

Then how sweet, some say, on a mossy bank a verdurous seat to find, But, for my part, I always found it a joy that brought a repentance For the juicy grass, with its nasty green, has stain’d a whole breadth of

my gown And when gowns are dyed, I needn'd say it's much better done up in


As for country fare-the first morning I came, I heard such a shrill piece

of work ! And ever since-and its ten days ago-we've lived upon nothing but

pork, One Sunday except, and then I turn'd sick- plague take all countri

fied cooks! Why didn't they tell me, before I had dined, they made pigeon pies of

the rooks? Then the gooseberry wine, though it's pleasant when up, it doesn't agree

when it's down ; But it serv'd me right, like a gooseberry fool, to look for champagne out

of Town !

To be sure cousin G. meant it all for the best, when he started this

pastoral plan; And his wife is a worthy domestical soul, and she teaches me all that she


Such as making of cheese, and curing of hams—but I'm sure that I

never shall learn; And I've fetch'd more back-ache than butter, as yet, by chumping away

at the churn : But in making hay, though it's tanning work, I found it more easy to

make, But it tries one's legs, and no great relief, when you're tired, to sit down

on the rake. I'd a country dance, too, at harvest home, with a regular country clown, But, Lord! they don't hug one round the waist, and give one such

smacks, in Town !

Then I've tried to make friends with the birds and the beasts, but they

take to such curious rigs, I'm always at odds with the turkey-cock, and I can't even please the

pigs. The very hens pick holes in my hands when I grope for the new-laid

eggs, And the gander comes hissing out of the pond on purpose to flap at my

legs ;

I've been bump'd in a ditch by the cow without horns, and the old sow

trampled me down: The beasts are as vicious as any wild beasts—but they're kept in cages,

in Town!

Another thing is the nasty dogs ; through the village I hardly can stir Since giving a bumpkin a pint of beer just to call off a barking cur ;

And now you would swear all the dogs in the place were set on to hunt

me down ; But neither the brutes nor the people, I think, are as civilly bred as in


Last night about twelve I was scar'd broad awake, and all in a tremble

of fright, But instead of a family murder, it proved an owl that flies screeching at

night. Then there's plenty of ricks and stacks all about, and I can't help dream

ing of Swing : In short, I think that a pastoral life is not the most happiest thing ; For, besides all the troubles I've mention'd before as endur'd for rural

ity's sake, I've been stung by the bees, and I've sat among ants, and once-ugh!

I trod on a snake ! And as to mosquitoes—they tortured me so, for I've got a particular skin; I do think it's the gnats coming out of the pond that drives the poor

suicides in ! And after all, ain't there new-laid eggs to be had upon Holborn Hill? And dairy-fed pork in Broad St. Giles's, and fresh butter wherever


will ? And a cover'd cart that brings cottage-bread quite rustical-like and

brown ? So one isn't so very uncountrified in the very heart of the Town. Howsomever, my mind's made up, and although I'm sure cousin Giles

will be vex’d, I mean to book me an inside place up to Town upon Saturday next, And if nothing happens, soon after ten, I shall be at the old Bell and

Crown; And perhaps I may come to the country again—when London is all

burnt down !



By six o'clock all Paris was awake;
By seven, her population all in motion,
Messieurs and dames, all hurrying, for the sake,
Some few, perhaps, it may be of devotion,
But all the rest to reach that grand pinnacle
Of earthly bliss to Frenchmen, a spectacle.
And really 'tis a pleasant sight to see
Parisian belles tripping on holiday;
Be they of gentle blood, or low degree,
It matters not, for all alike display
Each on her head so pretty a chapeau~
You're half in love before you peep below.

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