His corn-stalk fiddle, and the deeper tone His windmill, raised the passing breeze to win, You'll see his ship, "beam ends upon the floor," Thus, by his genius and his jack-knife driven, Or lead forth Beauty from a marble block ; Ay, when he undertakes it, He'll make the thing, and the machine that makes it. And when the thing is made, whether it be To move on earth, in air, or on the sea; J. Pierpont CCCLXVIII. HOTSPUR'S ACCOUNT OF A FOP. MY Y liege, I did deny no prisoners. But, I remember, when the fight was done, When I was dry with rage and extreme toil, And 'twixt his finger and his thumb, he held He gave his nose, and took 't away again; And still he smiled and talked ; And, as the soldiers bore dead bodies by, With many holiday and lady terms He questioned me; among the rest, demanded I then, all smarting, with my wounds being cold, Out of my grief and my impatience, Answered neglectingly, I know not what; He should, or he 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 parmaceti for an inward bruise; And that it was a great pity, so it was, This bald, unjointed chat of his, my lord, Shakspeare. CCCLXIX. HOW TO HAVE WHAT WE LIKE. HARD by a poet's attic lived a chemist, Or alchemist, who had a mighty Faith in the elixir vitæ ; And, though unflattered by the dimmest Glimpse of success, kept credulously groping And grubbing in his dark vocation; Stupidly hoping To find the art of changing metals, And so coin guineas, from his pots and kettles, By mystery of transmutation. Our starving poet took occasion To seek this conjurer's abode ; Not with encomiastic ode, Of laudatory dedication, But with an offer to impart, For twenty pounds, the secret art The money paid, our bard was hurried Crowed, capered, giggled, seemed to spurn his And cried, as he secured the door, And carefully put to the shutter, "Now, now, the secret, I implore! For heaven's sake, speak, discover, utter!" With grave and solemn air the poet Cried: "List! O, list, for thus I show it: Let this plain truth those ingrates strike, Who still, though blessed, new blessings crave; THAT WE MAY ALL HAVE WHAT WE LIKE, SIMPLY BY LIKING WHAT WE HAVE!" "Hark ye," said he, "'tis an odd story this, "Sir, did you tell?" — relating the affair But, by-the-by, 't was two black crows, not three." Whip to the third, the virtuoso went. "Sir," and so forth-"Why, yes; the thing is fact, Though in regard to number not exact; It was not two black crows; 't was only one; The gentleman himself told me the case." may I find him?" "Why, in such a place." "Where Then to his last informant he referred, And begged to know if true what he had heard. “Did you, sir, throw up a black crow?” "Not I!""Bless me! how people propagate a lie! Black crows have been thrown up, three, two, and one, And here I find at last all comes to none ! Did you say nothing of a crow at all?" "Crow crow perhaps I might, now I recall The matter over." "And pray, sir, what was 't?" "Why, I was horrid sick, and, at the last, I did throw up, and told my neighbor so, CCCLXXI. HELPS TO READ. Byrom. A CERTAIN artist I've forgot his name Had got, for making spectacles, a fame, Or, "helps to read," as, when they first were sold, And, for all uses to be had from glass, And, book produced, to see how they would fit, "Then, sir, I fancy, if you please to try, These in hand will better suit your eye? my "No, but they don't.". “Well, come, sir, if you please, Here is another sort; we 'll e'en try these; Still somewhat more they magnify the letter, Now, sir?" "Why, now, I'm not a bit the better." "No! here, take these which magnify still more, How do they fit”? "Like all the rest before!" |