Christopher Sly.

WHAT, Would you make me mad? Am not I Christopher Sly, old Sly's son of Burton-heath: by birth a pedlar, by education a card-maker, by transmutation a bear-herd, and now by present profession a tinker? Ask Marion Hacket, the fat alewife of Wincot, if she know me not if she say I am not fourteen pence on the score for sheer ale, score me up for the lyingest knave in Christendom. What, I am not bestraught.

Shakespere.

Dromio.

Adriana and Dromio.

Adriana. Say, is your tardy master now at hand? Nay, he is at two hands with me, and that my two hands can witness.

Adriana. Say, didst thou speak with him? know'st thou his mind?

Dromio. Ay, Ay, he told his mind upon mine ear: Beshrew his hand, I scarce could understand it.

Luciana. Spake he so doubtfully, thou couldst not feel his meaning?

Dromio. Nay, he struck so plainly, I could too well feel his blows: and withal so doubtfully that I could scarce understand them.

Adriana. But say, I prythee, is he coming home? It seems, he hath great care to please his wife.

Shakespere.

ΧΡΙΣΤΟΦΟΡΟΣ Ο ΣΙΣΥΦΟΥ.

Τι δ ̓; ἤ μ' ἐλαύνειν εἰς μανίας σπουδάζετε;
οὐ γὰρ κέκλημαι Χριστοφόρος ὁ Σισύφου
τοὐκ Φελλέως, φύσει μὲν ἔμπορος γεγώς,
τροφῇ δὲ πινακοποιός, εἶτ ̓ ἐξ ἀλλαγῆς
ἦν ἀρκτοφύλαξ, οἵαν δέ γε νῦν ἔρδω τέχνην
λεβητίατρος; δεῦρο δή τις καλεσάτω
τὴν σαρκίνην μοι βρυτοκαπήλιδ ̓ Ομφάλην
τὴν Οἰνόηθεν κατα πύθεσθ ̓ αὐτῆς πάρα
εἴτ ̓ οἶδέ μ ̓ εἴτ ̓ οὐκ οἶδεν ὅστις εἴμ ̓ ἐγώ.
εἰ μὴ γὰρ ἐκείνη φησί μ' οἴνου κριθίνου
κατὰ συμβολὰς ἤδη δύ ̓ ὀφείλειν οἱ δραχμάς,
ἐπιορκότατόν με Χριστοφόρων συμβάλλετε.
οὐ γάρ τι πρός γε μεμηνότ ̓ ἄνθρωπον λόγος.

R S.

Α.

Dromio.

PRESTO ad manumst ignavus iste tuus erus? D. Pol geminis manibus præsto erat mihi commodum: Geminæ sunt aures testes. A. An cum illo modo Locutu's? nostin quid sibi vult? D. Immo probe : Dixit mihi in aurem. Dii malum manibus duint, Nam dare vacivas auris vix quibam miser.

L. Dubie locutust nempe, ut sentires minus.

D. Sensi hercle colaphos, ita mi impegit pugnum in os: Sed dubiam vim verborum facit vis verberum.

A. Sed heus tu, quam mox, obsecro, revenit domum? Credo, placere uxori vir curat suæ.

R. S.

The Mad Bog.

GOOD people all of every sort,

Give ear unto my song;
And if you find it wondrous short,
It cannot hold you long.

In Islington there lived a man
Of whom the world might say,
That still a godly race he ran,
Whene'er he went to pray.

A kind and gentle heart he had
To comfort friends and foes;
The naked every day he clad,
When he put on his clothes.

And in that town a dog was found,
As many dogs there be,

Both mongrel, puppy, whelp and hound,

And curs of low degree.

The dog and man at first were friends;

But when a pique began,

The dog to gain his private ends

Went mad, and bit the man.

Canis Rabidus.

AUDITE, O cives, quovis ex ordine nati,
Et patula nostros imbibite aure modos;
Et si forte quibus videatur perbrevis esse,
Non faciet longam fabula tota moram.

Rure suburbano quidam vivebat, ut aiunt,
Quo laudis nunquam dignior alter erat,
Non parcus Superum cultor, si credimus ipsi,
Ante Deos quoties flecteret ille genu.

Hostibus hic mansuetus erat, dilectus amicis,

In cunctos miræ sedulitatis homo: Inque dies spisso nudum velabat amictu, Cum sese in vestes induit ipse suas.

Illa forte canis sese stabulabat in urbe;

Nec mirum est: multos urbs habet illa canes.

Illic Spartanumque genus fortesque Molossi,
Et catuli infames, squalida turba, ruunt.

Cum nondum lites indixerat unus et alter,
Junctus amicitia cum cane vixit homo.

Inde canis quædam, credo, sibi commoda quærens,
Fit subito rabidus, dilaniatque virum.

Around from all the neighbouring streets
The wondering neighbours ran,

And swore the dog had lost his wits,
To bite so good a man.

The wound it seemed both sore and sad

To every Christian eye;

And while they swore the dog was mad,
They swore the man would die.

But soon a wonder came to light,
That shewed the rogues they lied;
The man recovered of the bite;

The dog it was that died.

Goldsmith.

The Tropic Sun.

AND now, my race of terror run,
Mine be the eve of tropic sun;
No pale gradations quench his ray,
No twilight dews his wrath allay;
With disk like battle-target red,
He rushes to his burning bed;

Dyes the wide wave with bloody light;
Then sinks at once-and all is night.

Scott.