My Mary, dear departed shade! Where is thy place of blissful rest? See'st thou thy lover lowly laid? Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast? BURNS. Falstaff's Recovery. Fals. Embowelled! If thou embowel me to-day, I'll give you leave to powder me, and eat me too, to-morrow. 'Sblood, 'twas time to counterfeit, or that hot termagant Scot had paid me scot and lot too. Counterfeit? I lie; I am no counterfeit. To die is to be a counterfeit; for he is but the counterfeit of a man who hath not the life of a man; but to counterfeit dying, when a man thereby liveth, is to be no counterfeit, but the true and perfect image of life indeed. The better part of valour is—discretion, in the which better part I have saved my life. Zounds, I am afraid of this gunpowder Percy, though he be dead. How, if he should counterfeit too, and rise? I am afraid he would prove the better counterfeit. Therefore I'll make him sure; yea, and I'll swear I killed him. Why may not he rise as well as I? Nothing confutes me but eyes, and nobody sees me, Therefore, sirrah (stabbing him), with a new wound in your thigh, come you along with me. SHAKSPEARE. O animarum adscripta choro, dilecta Maria, Falstavus Redivivus. H. T. ΦΑΛ. Τὸ δ' ἔντερα ταμά σ' ἐξελεῖν· ἐὰν μὲν οὖν τεμάχη ποιήσεις λεπτά, καὶ κατεδεῖ γε πρός. τοῦ γὰρ θράσους πλεῖν ἡμίσους τὸ σωφρονεῖν· οἴμοι τάλας· ὡς τόνδε καὶ θανόνθ' ὅμως φέρ ̓ οὖν ἀνύσω νιν, καὶ κατομόσω καὶ κτανεῖν. J. Κ. Naturliebe. Wie einst mit flehendem Verlangen Und theilend meine Flammentricbe Bon meines Lebens Wiederhall. SCHILLER. Fame. Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise Comes the blind Fury with the abhorred shears, And slits the thin-spun life. But not the praise, Phoebus replied, and touched my trembling ears. MILTON. Vates Amans Naturae. Ut statuam fertur, miro perculsus amore, Donec in amplexus victum mollescere marmor, Tum rosa, tunc arbor mihi vivere; tum mihi prono Nil non sentiscit, qvamvis sine munere mentis, K. Fama. Gloria, magnanimi qvi pectoris ultimus error, H. A J. M. Winter. The mill-wheel's frozen in the stream, Younkers skate on the pool below, And hark, how the cold winds blow! There goes the squire to shoot at snipe ; You'd swear his breath was the smoke of a pipe Hodge is breaking the ice for the kine; Old and young cough as they go; The round red sun forgets to shine; And hark, how the cold winds blow! HORACE SMITH. Lines from the German. Let me wander where she walks Jove, I envy not thy heaven. Love within my bosom's cell |