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When Adam thus to Eve: “Fair consort! the hour
Of night, and all things now retired to rest
Mind us of like repose; since God hath set
Labour and rest, as day and night, to men
Successive; and the timely dew of sleep,
Now falling with soft slumbrous weight inclines
Our eye-lids. Other creatures all day long
Rove idle, unemployed, and less need rest;
Man hath his daily work of body or mind
Appointed, which declares his dignity,
And the regard of heaven on all his ways;
While other animals unactive range,
And of their doings God takes no account.
To-morrow, ere fresh morning streak the east
With first approach of light, we must be risen,
And at our pleasant labour, to reform
Yon flowery arbours, yonder alleys green,
Our walk at noon, with branches overgrown,
That mock our scant manuring, and require
More hands than ours to lop their wanton growth :
Those blossoms also, and those dropping gums,
That lie bestrown, unsightly and unsmooth,
Ask riddance, if we mean to tread with ease;
Meanwhile, as nature wills, night bids us rest.”


To whom thus Eve, with perfect beauty adorned : “My author and disposer, what thou bidd'st Unargued I obey; so God ordains. God is thy law, thou mine: to know no more Is woman's happiest knowledge and her praise. With thee conversing, I forget all time; All seasons and their change—all please alike. Sweet is the breath of morn, her rising sweet, With charm of earliest birds; pleasant the sun,



When on this delightful land he spreads
His orient beams, on herb, tree, fruit, and flower,
Glistering with dew; fragrant the fertile earth
After soft showers; and sweet the coming on
Of grateful evening mild; then silent night,
With this her solemn bird, and this fair moon,
And these the gems of heaven, her starry train:
But neither breath of morn, when she ascends
With charm of earliest birds ; nor rising sun
On this delightful land; nor herb, fruit, flower,
Glistening with dew; nor fragrance after showers;
Nor grateful evening mild; nor silent night,
With this her solemn bird ; nor walk by moon,
Or glittering star-light, without thee is sweet."




A FELLOW in the market-town,
Most musical cried razors up and down,

And offered twelve for eighteen pence.
Which certainly seemed wondrous cheap,
And for the money quite a heap,

As every man should buy, with cash and sense. A country bumpkin the great offer heard : Poor Hodge! who suffered by a thick, black beard,

That seemed a shoe-brush stuck beneath his nose; With cheerfulness the eighteen-pence he paid, And proudly to himself, in whispers said,

“ The rascal stole his razors, I suppose !

No matter if the fellow be a knave,
Provided that the razors shave :

It sartinly will be a monstrous prize :"



So, home the clown, with his good fortune, went,
Smiling in heart, and soul content,

And quickly soaped himself to ears and eyes.
Being well lathered from a dish or tub,
Hodge now began with grinning pain to grub,

Just like a hedger cutting furze:
'Twas a vile razor !—then the rest he tried-
All were impostors" Ah," Hodge sighed !

“I wish my eighteen-pence within my purse." His muzzle, formed of opposition stuff, Firm as a Foxite, would not lose his ruff,

So kept it, laughing at the steel and suds: Hodge, in a passion, stretched his angry jaws, Vowing dire vengeance, with clenched claws,

On the vile cheat that sold the goods. “ Razors ! a base, confounded bog, Not fit to scrape a hog!" Hodge sought the fellow-found him, and began· Perhaps, Master Razor-rogue, to you 'tis fun,

That people flay themselves out of their lives;
You rascal! for an hour have I been grubbing,
Giving my scoundrel whiskers here a scrubbing,

With razors just like oyster-knives :
Sirrah! I tell you, you're a knave,
To cry up razors that can't shave.”
Friend,” quoth the razor-man,

I'm no knave;
As for the razors you have bought,

Upon my word, I never thought That they would shave." “ Not think they'd shave!" quoth Hodge, with wonder

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ing eyes,

And voice not much unlike an Indian yell; “What were they made for then, you dog ?” he cries; “ Made !" quoth the fellow, with a smile" to sell.

Peter Pindar.


Pand. Lady, you utter madness, and not sorrow,

Const. Thou art not holy, to bely me so;
I am not mad : this hair I tear, is mine;
My name is Constance, I was Geoffry's wife;
Young Arthur is my son, and he is lost :
I am not mad;—I would to heaven, I were !
For then, 'tis like, I should forget myself:
O, if I could, what grief should I forget !-
Preach some philosophy to make me mad,
And thou shalt be canoniz'd, cardinal;
For, being not mad, but sensible of grief,
My reasonable part produces reason
How I may be delivered of these woes,
And teaches me to kill or hang myself:
If I were mad, I should forget my son;
Or madly think a babe of clouts were he:
I am not mad; too well, too well I feel
The different plague of each calamity.
Phil. Bind


those tresses :—0, what love I note In the fair multitude of those her hairs ! Where but by chance a silver drop hath fallen, Even to that drop ten thousand wiry friends Do glue themselves in sociable grief; Like true, inseparable, faithful loves, Sticking together in calamity.

Const. (madly.) To England if you will,


Phil. Bind up your hairs.

Const. Yes, that I will; and wherefore will I do it? I tore them from their bonds; and cry'd aloud, 0, that these hands could so redeem my son, As they have given these hairs their liberty !



But now


at that liberty ;
And will again commit them to their bonds,
Because my poor child is a prisoner.-
And, father cardinal, I have heard you say,
That we shall see and know our friends in heaven:
If that be, I shall see my boy again :
For, since the birth of Cain, the first male child,
To him that did but yesterday respire,
There was not such a gracious creature born.
But now will canker sorrow end my bud,
And chase the native beauty from his cheek,
And he will look as hollow as a ghost,
As dim and meagre as an ague's fit,
And so he'll die; and rising so again,
When I shall meet him in the court of heaven
I shall not know him : therefore never, never
Must I behold my pretty Arthur more.

Pand. You hold too heinous a respect of grief.
Const. He talks to me that never had a son.
Phil. You are as fond of grief as of your

child. Const. Grief fills the room up of my absent child, Lies in his bed, walks up and down with me; Puts on his pretty looks, repeats his words, Remembers me of all his gracious parts, Stuffs out his vacant garments with his form; Then have I reason to be fond of grief. Fare you well: had


such a loss as I, I could give you better comfort than


do. I will not keep this form upon my

head (Throwing away her head-dress.) When there is such disorder in


O Lord ! my boy, my Arthur, my fair son!
My life, my joy, my food, my all, the world!
My widow-comfort, and my sorrow's cure!


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