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Cut the curled hair that grows
Full between her horns and brows :
Pour in blood, and blood-like wine,
To Mother-Earth and Proserpine.
Mingle milk into the stream,
Feast the ghosts that love the steam.
Snatch a brand from fun’ral pile;
Toss it in, to make 'em boil :
And turn your faces from the sun,
Answer me, if all be done?

13. FOOL: Fortune takes care that fools should still be seen : She places 'em aloft, o'the top-most spoke Of all her wheels. Fools are the daily work Of nature, her vocation : If she form A man, she loses by 't ; 'tis too expensive ; 'Twould make ten fools : a man’s a prodigy.

LXXIX. THOMAS KEN.

1. MORNING HYMN.
Awake, my soul, and with the sun
Thy daily stage of duty run;
Shake off dull sloth and early rise
To pay thy morning sacrifice.
Thy precious time mispent redeem ;
Each present day thy last esteem ;
Improve thy talent with due care :
For the great day thyself prepare.
In conversation be sincere,
Keep conscience as the noon tide clear;
Think how all-seeing God thy ways
And all thy secret thoughts surveys.
By influence of the light divine
See thy own light to others shine ;
Reflect all heaven's propitious ways
In ardent love and cheerful praise.
Wake and lift up thyself, my heart,
And with the angels bear thy part,

Who all night long unwearied sing
High praise to the eternal king.
I wake, I wake, ye heavenly choir ;
May your devotion me inspire,
That I like you my age may spend,
Like you may on my God attend.
May I like you in God delight,
Have all day long my God in sight,
Perform like you my maker's will;
D, may I never more do ill!
Had I your wings, to heaven I'd fly,
But God shall that defect supply,
And my soul, winged with warm desire,
Shall all day long to heaven aspire.
All praise to thee who safe hast kept,
And hast refreshed me whilst I slept ;
Grant, Lord, when I from death shall wake,
I may of endless life partake.
I would not wake nor rise again,
E'en heaven itself I would disdain
Wert thou not there to be enjoyed,
And I in hymns to be employed.
Heaven is, dear Lord, where'er thou art,
O never then from me depart,
For to my soul 'tis hell to be
But for one moment void of Thee.
Lord, I my vows to Thee renew,
Disperse my sins as morning dew,
Guard my first springs of thought and wil
And with thyself my spirit fill.
Direct, control, suggest this day
All I design, or do, or say;
That all their powers, with all their might,
In thy sole glory may unite.
Praise God, from whom all blessings flow;
Praise Him, all creatures here below ;
Praise Him above, ye heavenly host;
Praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost.

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2. EVENING HYMN.
All praise to thee, my God, this night,
For all the blessings of the light;
Keep me, oh, keep me, King of Kings,
Beneath thy own Almighty wings !
Forgive me, Lord, for thy dear Son,
The

ills that I this day have done :
That with the world, myself, and thee,
I, ere I sleep, at peace may be.
Teach me to live, that I may

dread
The grave as little as my bed :
To die, that this vile body may
Rise glorious at the judgment-day.
Oh! may my soul on thee repose
And may sweet sleep mine eyelids close
Sleep, that may me more vig'rous make
To serve my God when I awake.
When in the night I sleepless lie,
My soul with heav'nly thoughts supply:
Let no ill dreams disturb my rest,
No pow’rs of darkness me molest.
Dull sleep!-of sense me to deprive:
I am but half my time alive;
Thy faithful lovers, Lord, are griev'd,
To lie so long of thee bereav’d.
But though sleep o'er my frailty reigns,
Let it not hold me long in chains ;
And now and then let loose my heart,
Till it an Hallelujah dart.
The faster sleep the senses binds,
The more unfettered are our minds ;
Oh, may my soul from matter-free,
Thy loveliness unclouded see!
Oh, when shall I, in endless day,
For ever chase dark sleep away;
And hymns with the supernal choir
Incessant sing, and never tire ?
Oh, may my Guardian, while I sleep,
Close to my bed his vigils keep,

His love angelical instil,
Stop all the avenues of ill.

LXXX. ROSCOMMON.

1. MAN'S IDOLS.
Fond men, by passions wilfully betrayed,
Adore those idols which their fancy made;
Purchasing riches with our time and care,
We lose our freedom in a gilded snare.
And having all, all to ourselves refuse,
Oppressed with blessings which we fear to lose
In vain our fields and flocks increase our store,
If our abundance makes us wish for more.

2. THE COUNTRY-MAID.
How happy is the harmless country maid,
Who, rich by nature, scorns superfluous aid!
Whose modest clothes no wanton eyes invite,
But, like her soul, preserve the native white.
Whose little store her well-taught mind does please;
Not pinch'd with want, nor cloy'd with wanton ease.
Who, free from storms which on the great ones fall,
Makes but few wishes, and enjoys them all.
No care, but Love, can discompose her breast,
Love, of all cares the sweetest and the best!
While on sweet grass her blearing charge does lie,
One happy lover feeds upon

ber

eye:
Not one, whom on her gods or men impose,
But one whom love has for this lover chose.
Under some fav’rite myrtle's shady boughs,
They speak their passions with repeated vows;
And whilst a blush confesses how she burns,
His faithful heart makes as sincere returns,
Thus in the arms of love and peace they lie;
And, whilst they live, their flames can never die.

LXXXI. SIR CHARLES SEDLEY.

1. LOVE.
Love, when 'tis true, needs not the aid

Of sighs, nor oaths, to make it known;

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