FLATTER and praise, commend, extol their graces;
Though ne'er so black, say they have angels' faces.
That man that has a tongue, I say, is no man,
If with his tongue he cannot win a woman.
Shakspere. There's heaven still in thy voice; but that's a sign Virtue's departing, for thy better angel
Still makes the woman's tongue his rising ground, Wags there awhile, and takes his flight for ever.
Dropped manna, and could make the worse appear
The better reason, to perplex and dash
Maturest counsels.
But still his tongue ran on, the less
Of weight it had, with greater ease;
And, with its everlasting clack,
Set all men's ears upon the rack.
The bookful blockhead, ignorantly read,
With loads of learned lumber in his head,
With his own tongue still edifies his ears,
And always listening to himself appears.
Is there a man of an eternal vein,
Who lulls the town in winter with his strain,
At Bath in summer chants the reigning lass,
And sweetly whistles as the waters pass?
Is there a tongue like Delia's o'er her cup,
That runs for ages without winding up?
There is a tongue in every leaf-
A voice in every rill-
A voice that speaketh everywhere—
In flood and fire, through earth and air,
A tongue that's never still.
THE town divided, each runs several ways,
As passion, humour, int'rest, party sways,
Things of no moment, colour of the hair,
Shape of a leg, complexion brown or fair,
A dress well chosen, or a patch misplac'd,
Conciliate favour, or create distaste.
The Town! what is there in the Town, to lure
Our household dreams away from the fresh flowers?
Is not the Town a monster? ravenous?
Fierce? Hydra-headed? fed by peasants' strength?
Deck'd out with plunder of the fields? along
Whose limbs of stone and marble arteries
Innumerous emmets crawl, till they sink down
Dead, with excess of feasting?
MAN'S life's a tragedy: his mother's womb
From which he enters is the tiring room;
This spacious earth the theatre; and the stage
That country which he lives in; passion, rage,
Folly, and vice are actors;-the first cry
The prologue to the ensuing tragedy:
The former act consisteth of dumb shows,
The second he to more perfection grows;
In the third he is a man, and doth begin
To nurture vice and act the deeds of sin;
In the fourth declines; in the fifth diseases clog
And trouble him; then death's his epilogue.
Sir Henry Wotton.
Sometime let gorgeous Tragedy
In sceptr'd pall come sweeping by,
Presenting Thebes' or Pelops' line,
Or the tale of Troy divine,
Or what (though rare) of later age
Ennobled hath the buskin'd stage.
How calm, how beautiful comes on
The stilly hour, when storms are gone;
When warring winds have died away,
And clouds, beneath the glancing ray,
Melt off, and leave the land and sea
Sleeping in bright tranquility!
Amid the "living sapphires" which on high
Burn moveless, seeming radiantly to roll
In mystic circles round the steadfast pole,
Thou had thy throne, benign Tranquility!
Nor only there; from the rich evening sky,
Whose glowing glories make th' approach of night
More beauteous than the noon's full blaze of light,
Thou lookest forth in thy serenity.
Nature is full of thee; the breath of flowers,
The leafy shade of grove or bushy dell, The break of morn, the solemn midnight hours, Thine impress bear; but most thou lov'st to dwell With chasten'd souls, to whom the boon is given Of peace on earth, with hope of bliss in heaven. Mary Milner.
TRANSLATE-TRANSLATORS.
-TRANSLATORS, are authors grown,
For ill translators make the book their own.
Others do strive with words and forced phrase
To add such lustre, and so many rays,
That but to make the vessel shining, they
Much of the precious metal rub away.
He is translation's thief that addeth more,
As much as he that taketh from the store
Of the first author. Here he maketh blots,
That mends; and added beauties are but spots.
A new and nobler way thou dost pursue,
To make translations and translators too.-Denham.
SHE bids me hope! and, in that charming word,
Has peace and transport to my soul restor'd.
Lord Lyttleton.
My joy, my best belov'd, my only wish!
How shall I speak the transport of my soul!
On such a theme 't were impious to be calm; Passion is reason, transport, temper, here! Young.
TRAVELLER-TRAVELLING.
NEVER were men so weary of their skins,
And apt to leap out of themselves as they;
Who when they travel to bring forth rare men,
Come home delivered of a fine French suit.
To all the moral virtues, that first greets
The light with a new fashion; which becomes them,
Like apes disfigur'd with the attires of men.
Though he alight sometimes, still goeth on.
Go, soft enthusiast, quit the cypress groves;
Nor to the rivulet's lonely moanings tune
Your sad complaint. Go, seek the cheerful haunts'
Of men, and mingle with the bustling crowd;
Lay schemes for wealth, or power, or fame; the wish
Of nobler minds, and push them night and day,
Or join the caravan, in quest of scenes
New to your eyes, and shifting every hour,
Beyond the Alps, beyond the Appenines.
Where'er I roam, whatever realms to see,
My heart untravell'd, fondly turns to thee:
Still to my brother turns, with ceaseless pain,
And drags at each remove a lengthening chain.
HE is composed and framed of treachery.
I treated, trusted you, and thought ye mine;
When, in requital of my best endeavours,
You treacherously practiced to undo me. Otway.
Desire in rapture gazed awhile,
And saw the treacherous goddess smile.
TREASON is but trusted like the fox,
Who ne'er so tame, so cherished, and locked up, Will have a wild trick of his ancestors.-Shakspere.
Treason doth never prosper; what's the reason?
For if it prosper none dare call it treason.
By heav'n, there's treason in his aspect!
That cheerless gloom, those eyes that pore on earth,
That bended body, and those folded arms,
Are indications of a tortur'd mind,
And blazon equal villany and shame.
For know that treason,
And prostituted faith, like strumpets vile,
The slaves of appetite, when lust is sated-
Are turn'd adrift to dwell with infamy,
By those that us'd them.
How safe is treason, and how sacred ill,
When none can sin against the people's will;
Where crowds can wink and no offence be known,
Since in another's guilt they find their own.
The man who pauses in the paths of treason,
Halts on a quicksand-the first step engulphs him.
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