Glend. I can speak English, lord, as well as you;
For I was train'd up in the English court;
Where, being but young, I framed to the harp
Many an English ditty, lovely well,

And gave the tongue a helpful ornament,-
A virtue that was never seen in you.

Hot. Marry, and I'm glad of it with all my
I had rather be a kitten, and cry mew,
Than one of these same metre ballad-mongers;

[heart;

I had rather hear a brazen canstick turn'd,
Or a dry wheel grate on the axle-tree;
And that would set my teeth nothing on edge,
Nothing so much as mincing poetry :-
'Tis like the forc'd gait of a shuffling nag.
Glend. Come, you shall have Trent turned.
Hot.
I do not care:
I'll give thrice so much land to any well-deserving
But in the way of bargain, mark ye me,

I'll cavil on the ninth part of a hair.

[friend;

Are the indentures drawn? shall we be gone?

Glend. The moon shines fair; you may away by

I'll haste the writer, and withal,

[night;

Break with your wives of your departure hence.

I am afraid my daughter will run mad,
So much she doteth on her Mortimer.

[Exit.

Mort. Fie, cousin Percy! how you cross my father!

Hot. I cannot choose; sometime he angers me With telling me of the moldwarp and the ant, Of the dreamer Merlin and his prophecies, And of a dragon and a finless fish, A clip-wing'd griffin and a moulten raven, A couching lion and a ramping cat, And such a deal of skimble-skamble stuff As puts me from my faith. I tell you what,—

He held me, last night, at least nine hours,
In reckoning up the several devils' names,
That were his lackeys: I cried, "Hum," and "Well,
go to,"

But mark'd him not a word. O, he's as tedious
As is a tired horse, a railing wife;

Worse than a smoky house :-I had rather live
With cheese and garlick in a windmill, far,
Than feed on cates, and have him talk to me
In any summer-house in Christendom.

Mort. In faith, he is a worthy gentleman.

THE BATTLE OF NASEBY.-(Macaulay.) Oh, wherefore come ye forth, in triumph from the North,

With your hands, and your feet, and your raiment all red!

And wherefore doth your rout send forth a joyous shout?

And whence be the grapes of the winepress that ye tread?

Oh, evil was the root, and bitter was the fruit,

And crimson was the juice of the vintage that we

trod;

For we trampled on the throng of the haughty and the strong,

Who sate in the high places, and slew the saints of God.

It was about the noon of a glorious day of June, That we saw their banners dance and their cuirasses

shine,

And the man of blood was there, with his long

essenced hair,

And Astley, and Sir Marmaduke, and Rupert of the Rhine.

Like a servant of the Lord, with his Bible and his sword,

The general rode along us to form us to the fight, When a murmuring sound broke out, and swell'd into a shout,

Among the godless horsemen upon the tyrant's right.

And hark! like the roar of the billow on the shore, The cry of battle rises along their charging line! For God! For the cause! for the church! for the laws!

For Charles, King of England, and Rupert of the Rhine!

The furious German comes, with his clarions and his drums,

His bravoes of Alsatia, and pages of Whitehall; They are bursting on our flanks. Grasp your pikes, close your ranks;

For Rupert never comes but to conquer or to fall.

They are here! They rush on! We are broken! We are gone!

Our left is borne before them like stubble on the blast.

O Lord, put forth thy might! O Lord, defend the

right!

Stand back to back, in God's name, and fight it to the last.

Stout Skippon hath a wound; the centre hath given ground:

Hark! hark! what means the trampling of horsemen in our rear?

Whose banner do I see, boys? 'Tis he, thank God, 'tis he, boys.

Bear up another minute! brave Oliver is here.

Their heads all stooping low, their points all in a

row,

Like a whirlwind on the trees, like a deluge on the dykes,

Our cuirassiers have burst on the ranks of the

accurst,

And at a shock have scattered the forest of his

pikes.

Fast, fast, the gallants ride, in some safe nook to hide

Their coward heads, predestined to rot on Temple

Bar;

And he he turns, he flies; shame on those cruel

eyes

That bore to look on torture, and dare not look on

war.

Ho! comrades,j scour the plain; and ere ye strip the slain,

First give another stab to make your search secure, Then shake from sleeves and pockets their broad pieces and lockets,

The tokens of the wanton, the plunder of the poor.

Fools! your doublets shone with gold, and your hearts were gay and bold,

When you kissed your lily hands to your lemans to-day;

And to morrow shall the fox, from her chambers in

the rocks,

Lead forth her tawny cubs to howl above the prey.

Where be your tongues that late mocked at heaven and hell and fate,

And the fingers that once were so busy with your blades,

Your perfum'd satin clothes, your catches and your oaths,

Your stage plays, and your sonnets, your diamonds and your spades?

Down, down, for ever down, with the mitre and the

crown,

With the Belial of the court and the mammon of the Pope;

There is woe in Oxford halls; there is wail in Durham's stalls!

The Jesuit smites his bosom; the bishop rends his

cope.

And she of the seven hills shall mourn her children's ills,

And tremble when she thinks on the edge of England's sword;

And the kings of earth in fear shall shudder when they hear

What the hand of God hath wrought for the Houses and the Word.

ADVERSITY.

AS YOU LIKE IT. ACT II. SCENE I.

Sweet are the uses of adversity;

Which like the toad, ugly and venomous,
Wears yet a precious jewel in its head.