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My sprightly neighbour! gone before
To that unknown and silent shore,
Shall we not meet as heretofore

Some summer morning-
When from thy cheerful eyes a ray
Hath struck a bliss upon the day,
A bliss that would not go away,
A sweet fore-warning?

II2.

A Perfect Woman.

SHE was a phantom of delight

When first she gleamed upon my sight ;
A lovely apparition, sent

To be a moment's ornament;

Her eyes as stars of twilight fair;

Like twilight's, too, her dusky hair ;
But all things else about her drawn
From May-time and the cheerful dawn ;
A dancing shape, an image gay,
To haunt, to startle, and waylay.

I saw her upon nearer view,
A spirit, yet a woman too!

Her household motions light and free,
And steps of virgin-liberty;

C. LAMB.

A countenance in which did meet
Sweet records, promises as sweet;
A creature not too bright or good
For human nature's daily food,
For transient sorrows, simple wiles,
Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles.
And now I see with eye serene
The very pulse of the machine;
A being breathing thoughtful breath,
A traveller between life and death:
The reason firm, the temperate will,
Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill;
A perfect woman, nobly planned
To warn, to comfort, and command;
And yet a spirit still, and bright
With something of an angel-light.

W. WORDSWORTH.

113.

Epitaph on Mrs. Margaret Paston.

So fair, so young, so innocent, so sweet,
So ripe a judgment, and so rare a wit,
Require at least an age in one to meet.

In her they met; but long they could not stay,
'Twas gold too fine to mix without allay.
Heaven's image was in her so well exprest,
Her very sight upbraided all the rest;
Too justly ravished from an age like this,
Now she is gone, the world is of a piece.

J. DRYDEN.

114.

A Song.

HIGH state and honours to others impart,
But give me your heart;

That treasure, that treasure alone,
I beg for my own.

So gentle a love, so fervent a fire
My soul does inspire;

That treasure, that treasure alone,
I beg for my own.

Your love let me crave;

Give me in possessing

So matchless a blessing;
That empire is all I would have.
Love's my petition,

All my ambition ;
If e'er you discover
So faithful a lover,

I'll die, I'll die,

So give up my game.

115.

J. DRYDEN.

SWEET Spring, thou turn'st with all thy goodly train, Thy head with flames, thy mantle bright with flowers; The zephyrs curl the green locks of the plain,

The clouds for joy in pearls weep down their show'rs.

Thou turn'st, sweet youth, but ah! my pleasant hours
And happy days with thee come not again;
The sad memorials only of my pain

Do with thee turn, which turn my sweets in sours.
Thou art the same which still thou wast before,
Delicious, wanton, amiable, fair;

But she, whose breath embalmed thy wholesome air,
Is gone; nor gold, nor gems, her can restore.

Neglected virtue! seasons go and come,
While thine forgot lie closèd in a tomb.

W. DRUMMOND.

116.

FROM you have I been absent in the spring,
When proud-pied April, dressed in all his trim,
Hath put a spirit of youth in everything,

I

That heavy Saturn laughed and leaped with him.
Yet nor the lays of birds, nor the sweet smell

Of different flowers in odour and in hue,
Could make me any summer's story tell.

Or from their proud lap pluck them where they grew :
Nor did I wonder at the lilies white,

Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose;
They were but sweet, but figures of delight,
Drawn after you; you pattern of all those.

Yet seemed it winter still; and, you away,
As with your shadow I with these did play.
W. SHAKESPEARE.

117.

A feud of long standing has separated the houses of Montague and Capulet. Representatives of the former and the latter, Romeo and Juliet, have fallen deeply in love with each other. Romeo comes by night to the garden of the Capulets.

Rom. But, soft! what light through yonder window breaks? (Juliet appears at a window above.)

It is the east, and Juliet is the sun!

Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon,

Who is already sick and pale with grief,

That thou her maid art far more fair than she:

I The son of Heaven and Earth, and the father of Jupiter. He is generally represented as an infirm old man.

Be not her maid, since she is envious;

Her vestal livery is but sick and green,
And none but fools do wear it; cast it off.
It is my lady, O, it is my love!

O, that she knew she were!—

She speaks, yet she says nothing: what of that?
Her eye discourses; I will answer it,

I am too bold; 'tis not to me she speaks :
Two of the fairest stars in all the heaven,
Having some business, do entreat her eyes
To twinkle in their spheres till they return.
What if her eyes were there, they in her head?
The brightness of her cheek would shame those stars,
As daylight doth a lamp; her eyes in heaven
Would through the airy region stream so bright,
That birds would sing, and think it were not night.
See, how she leans her cheek upon her hand!
O, that I were a glove upon that hand,

That I might touch that cheek!

Ful. Ah me!

Rom. She speaks:

O, speak again, bright angel! for thou art
As glorious to this night, being o'er my head,
As is a winged messenger of heaven

Unto the white-upturnèd wondering eyes
Of mortals, that fall back to gaze on him,
When he bestrides the lazy-pacing clouds,
And sails upon the bosom of the air.

Jul. O Romeo, Romeo! wherefore art thou Romeo? Deny thy father, and refuse thy name;

Or, if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love,

And I'll no longer be a Capulet.

Rom. (Aside). Shall I hear more, or shall I speak at this?

Ful. 'Tis but thy name that is my enemy ;-
Thou art thyself, though not a Montague.
What's Montague? it is nor hand nor foot,
Nor arm, nor face, nor any other part
Belonging to a man. O, be some other name!
What's in a name? that which we call a rose,
By any other name would smell as sweet;
So Romeo would, were he not Romeo called,
Retain that dear perfection which he owes,

Without that title.

Romeo, doff thy name;

And for that name, which is no part of thee,

Take all myself.

Rom. I take thee at thy word :

Call me but love, and I'll be new-baptized;
Henceforth I never will be Romeo.

Jul. What man art thou, that, thus bescreened in night, So stumblest on my counsel?

Rom. By a name

I know not how to tell thee who I am :
My name, dear saint, is hateful to myself,
Because it is an enemy to thee;

Had I it written, I would tear the word.

Jul. My ears have not yet drunk a hundred words Of that tongue's utterance, yet I know the sound : Art thou not Romeo, and a Montague?

Rom. Neither, fair saint, if either thee dislike.

Jul. How camest thou hither, tell me, and wherefore? The orchard walls are high and hard to climb,

And the place death, considering who thou art,

If any of my kinsmen find thee here.

Rom. With love's light wings did I o'erperch these walls;

For stony limits cannot hold love out;

And what love can do that dares love attempt;
Therefore thy kinsmen are no let to me.

Jul. If they do see thee, they will murder thee.
Rom. Alack! there lies more peril in thine eye,
Than twenty of their swords: look thou but sweet,
And I am proof against their enmity.

Jul. I would not for the world they saw thee here. Rom. I have night's cloak to hide me from their sight ; And, but thou love me, let them find me here :

My life were better ended by their hate,

Than death proroguèd, wanting of thy love.

Jul. By whose direction foundest thou out this place? Rom. By love, who first did prompt me to inquire;

He lent me counsel, and I lent him eyes.

I am no pilot; yet, wert thou as far

As that vast shore washed with the farthest sea,

I would adventure for such merchandise.

Jul. Thou knowest the mask of night is on my face;

Else would a maiden blush bepaint my cheek,

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