Vicar of Wakefield - Continued.

Chapter xxiv.

When lovely woman stoops to folly,
And finds too late that men betray,
What charm can soothe her melancholy?
What art can wash her guilt away?

The only art her guilt to cover,

To hide her shame from every eye,
To give repentance to her lover,
And wring his bosom, is - - to die.

Elegy on Mrs. Mary Blaize.

The king himself has followed her
When she has walked before.

TOBIAS SMOLLETT.

1721-1771.

Ode to Independence.

Thy spirit, Independence, let me share;
Lord of the lion heart and eagle eye,

Thy steps I follow with my bosom bare,

Nor heed the storm that howls along the sky.

THOMAS PERCY.

1728-1811.

Reliques of English Poetry. The Baffled Knight.

He that wold not when he might,

He shall not when he wolda.

The Friar of Orders Gray.

Weep no more, lady, weep no more,
Thy sorrow is in vain ;

For violets plucked the sweetest showers
Will ne'er make grow again.

Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more,
Men were deceivers ever;

One foot on sea, and one on shore,
To one thing constant never.

From Byrd's Psalmes, Sonets, etc., 1588.

My mind to me a kingdom is;

*

Such perfect joy therein I find,

As far exceeds all earthly bliss,

That God and Nature hath assigned.

Though much I want that most would have,
Yet still my mind forbids to crave.

*My mind to me an empire is

While grace affordeth health.

ROBERT SOUTHWELL. 1560-1595.

Guy of Gisborne.

He that had neyther been kithe nor kin
Might have seen a full fayre sight.

BEILBY PORTEUS.

1731-1808.

Death, a Poem. Line 154.
One murder makes a villain,

Millions a hero.

JAMES BEATTIE.

1735-1766.

The Minstrel. Book i. St. 1.

Ah! who can tell how hard it is to climb

The steep where Fame's proud temple shines afar?

The Hermit.

At the close of the day, when the hamlet is still, And mortals the sweets of forgetfulness prove, When nought but the torrrent is heard on the hill, And nought but the nightingale's song in the grove.

He thought as a sage, but he felt as a man.

Epigram. The Bucks had dined.

How hard their lot who neither won nor lost.

The Rosciad. Line 322.

He mouths a sentence, as curs mouth a bone.

The tree of deepest root is found
Least willing still to quit the ground;
'T was therefore said, by ancient sages,
That love of life increased with years
So much, that in our latter stages,

When pains grow sharp, and sickness rages,
The greatest love of life appears.

BARTON BOOTH.

1681-1733.

Song.

True as a needle to the pole,
Or as the dial to the sun.

No.

WILLIAM COWPER.

1731-1800.

Table Talk.

Is base in kind, and born to be a slave.

Freedom has a thousand charms to show, That slaves, howe'er contented, never know.

The Progress of Error.

How much a dunce, that has been sent to roam, Excels a dunce, that has been kept at home.

Truth.

Just knows and knows no more, her Bible true, A truth the brilliant Frenchman never knew.

Retirement.

An idler is a watch that wants both hands;
As useless if it goes as when it stands.

The Yearly Distress.

A kick, that scarce would move a horse,
May kill a sound divine.

THE TASK.

Book i. The Sofa.

Nor rural sights alone, but rural sounds

Exhilarate the spirit, and restore

The tone of languid Nature.