PRINCE ARTHUR. HUBERT.

A. HAVE you the heart? When your head did but ache,

I knit my handkerchief about your brows,

(The best I had, a princess wrought it me,)

And I did never ask it you again:

And with my hand at midnight held your head ;

And, like the watchful minutes to the hour,

Still and anon cheered up the heavy time;

Saying, What lack you? and, Where lies your grief?

ΑΡΤΟΥΡΟΣ. ΟΥΒΕΡΤΟΣ.

Α. τλαίης δὲ πῶς ἄν; σοὶ γὰρ εὖτ ̓ ἤλγει κάρα, ζώνην κόμαισι σαῖς ἐπιζεύξας ἐμήν,

ἐμῶν γ' ἀρίστην, βασιλίδος δ ̓ ἔργον χερός, εἶτ ̓ οὐκ ἀπῄτουν· καὶ τὸ σὸν χεροῖν ἐμαῖν

κάρα μεσούσης εὐφρόνης ἐβάστασα

γνώμων γὰρ ἕρπονθ ̓ ὡς βάδην τηρεῖ χρόνον ἐγερτὶ πικρὰν ὧδ ̓ ἐκούφιζον τριβήν,

λέγων, τί χρήζεις; πῇ δὲ τἄλγος ἱζάνει;

H.

Or, What good love may I perform for you?
Many a poor man's son would have lain still
And ne'er have spoke a loving word to you;
But you at your sick service had a prince.
Nay, you may think my love was crafty love,
And call it cunning; do, an if you will:

If heaven be pleased that you must use me ill,

Why then you must.-Will you put out mine eyes?
These eyes that never did nor never shall

So much as frown on you?

I have sworn to do it,

And with hot irons must I burn them out.

SHAKESPEARE.

ποίας δὲ δεῖ σε φιλτάτης ὑπουργίας ;
φαύλου μὲν εἰσὶ πατρὸς οἷς βρίζειν παρὸν
οὐκ ἠξίωσάν σ ̓ οὐδ ̓ ἂν εὖ προσεννέπειν·
σοὶ δ ̓ αὖ νοσοῦντι πρόσπολος παρῆν ἄναξ.
ἀλλ ̓ οὐ φιλοῦντα δῆθεν εὐπρεπὴς λόγος
προσήκασεν φιλοῦντι· φάσκ ̓, εἴ σοι χάρις·
εἰ δ ̓ οὖν μολεῖν σε τοῦδε λυμαντήριον
θεοῖς δέδοκται, τουργον ἔστ' ἐργαστέον.
τλήσει σὺ τῶνδέ μ' ὀμμάτων τητώμενον,
τῶν οὔτε πρόσθεν οὐδ ̓ ἐπισχόντων γε σοὶ
σκύθρωπον ὄψιν οὔτ ̓ ἐφεξόντων ποτέ;

ΟΥ. ἐνώμοτος γάρ εἰμι ποιήσειν τάδε·

ἀκμαῖς δὲ χρή σοι μ' ἐμπύροις φθείρειν κόρας.

To a Lady's Girdle.

THAT which her slender waist confined
Shall now my joyful temples bind:
No monarch but would give his crown
His arms might do what this has done.

It was my heaven's extremest sphere
The pale which held that lovely deer:
My joy, my grief, my hope, my love
Did all within this circle move.

A narrow compass! And yet there
Dwelt all that's good and all that's fair;
Give me but what this riband bound-
Take all the rest the sun goes round.

WALLER.