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And I'll be sworn, I have power to shame him hence.
Oh! while you live, tell truth, and shame the devil.
Mort. Come, come,

No more of this unprofitable chat.

Hot. Methinks my portion, north from Burton here,
In quantity equals not one of yours;

See, how this river comes me cranking in,
And cuts me, from the best of all my land,
A huge half-moon, a monstrous cantle* out.
10 I'll have the current in this place dammed up;
And here the smug and silver Trent shall run,
In a new channel, fair and evenly;

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It shall not wind with such a deep indent,

To rob me of so rich a bottom here.

Glend. Not wind? it shall, it must; you see, it doth. Worcester. Yea, but a little charge will trench him here, And on this north side win this cape of land;

And then he runs straight and even.

Hot. I'll have it so; a little charge will do it.
Glend. I will not have it altered.

Hot. Will not you?

Glend. No, nor you shall not.

Hot. Who shall say me nay?

Glend. Why, that will I.

Hot. Let me not understand you, then;

Speak it in Welsh.

Glend. I can speak English, lord, as well as you;
For I was trained up in the English court:

Where, being but young, I framed to the harp

30 Many an English ditty, lovely well,

And gave the tongue a helpful ornament;

A virtue that was never seen in you.

Hot. Marry, and I'm glad of it with all my heart;
I had rather be a kitten, and cry-mew,

35 Than one of these same metre ballad-mongers;
I had rather hear a brazen canstict turned,
Or a dry wheel grate on an axle-tree;
And that would set my teeth nothing on edge,
Nothing so much as mincing poetry;

40 'T is like the forced gait of a shuffling nag.
Glend. Coine, you shall have Trent turned.
Hot. I do not care; I'll give thrice so much land
To any well-deserving friend;

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But, in the way of bargain, mark ye me,
I'll cavil on the ninth part of a hair.

Glend. The moon shines fair, you may away by night:
I'll haste the writer, and, withal,

5 Break with your wives of your departure hence :
I am afraid my daughter will run mad,
So much she doateth on her Mortimer.

[Exit.

Mort. Fie, cousin Percy! how you cross my father!
Hot. I cannot choose; sometimes he angers me,
10 With telling me of the moldwarp and the ant,
Of the dreamer Merlin and his prophecies;
And of a dragon and a finless fish,

A clip-winged griffin, and a moulten raven,
A couching lion, and a ramping cat,

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15 And such a deal of skimble-skamble stuff
As puts me from my faith. I tell you what,-
He held me, but last night, at least nine hours,
In reckoning up the several devils' names;

That were his lackeys: I cried humph,—and well,—go to, 20 But marked him not a word, Oh! he's as tedious As is a tired horse, a railing wife;

Worse than a smoky house :-I had rather live
With cheese and garlic, in a windmill, far,
Than feed on cates, and have him talk to me,
25 In any summer-house in Christendom.

Mort. In faith, he is a worthy gentleman;
Exceedingly well read, and profited

In strange concealments; valiant as a lion,
And wond'rous affable; and as bountiful
30 As mines of India. Shall I tell you, cousin?
He holds your temper in a high respect,

And curbs himself even of his natural scope,
When you do cross his humor; 'faith, he does;
I warrant you, that man is not alive,

35 Might so have tempted him as you have done,
Without the taste of danger and reproof;

But do not use it oft, let me entreat you.

Wor. In faith, my lord, you are too wilful blame You must needs learn, lord, to amend this fault; 40 Though sometimes it shows greatness, courage, blood, (And that's the dearest grace it renders you,) Yet oftentimes it doth present harsh rage, Defect of manners, want of government, Pride, haughtiness, opinion, and disdain;

The least of which, haunting a nobleman,

Loseth men's hearts; and leaves behind a stain
Upon the beauty of all parts besides,

Beguiling them of commendation.

5 Hot. Well, I am schooled; good manners be your speed!

LESSON CLX.-EXTRACT FROM AN ADDRESS DELIVERED AT CHAPEL HILL.-WM. GASTON.

Deeply rooted principles of probity, confirmed habits of industry, and a determination to rely on one's own exertion, constitute the great preparation for the discharge of the duties of man, and the best security for performing 5 them with honor to one's self, and benefit to others. But it may be asked, what is there in such a life of never-ending toil, effort, and privation, to recommend it to the acceptance of the young and the gay? Those who aspire to heroic renown, may indeed make up their minds to embrace these 10 "hard doctrines;" but it may be well questioned, whether happiness is not preferable to greatness, and enjoyment more desirable than distinction. Let others, if they will, toil up "the steep where Fame's proud temple shines afar;" we choose rather to sport in luxurious ease and careless 15 glee, in the valley below.

It is, indeed, on those who aspire to eminence, that these injunctions are intended to be pressed with the greatest emphasis, not only because a failure in them would be more disastrous than in others, but because they are ex30 posed to greater and more numerous dangers of error. But it is a sad mistake to suppose, that they are not suited to all, and are not earnestly urged upon all, however humble their pretensions or moderate their views. Happiness, as well as greatness, enjoyment, as well as renown, have 25 no friends so sure as Integrity, Diligence and Independ

ence.

We are not placed here to waste our days in wanton riot or inglorious ease, with appetites perpetually gratified and never palled, exempted from all care and solicitude, 30 with life ever fresh, and joys ever new. He who has fitted us for our condition, and assigned to us its appropriate. duties, has not left his work unfinished, and omitted to provide a penalty for the neglect of our obligations. Labor is not more the duty, than the blessing of man. Without 35 it, there is neither mental nor physical vigor, health, cheer

fulness nor animation; neither the eagerness of hope, nor the capacity to enjoy.

Every human being must have some object to engage his attention, excite his wishes, and rouse him to action, 5 or he sinks, a prey to listlessness. For want of proper occupations, see strenuous idleness resorting to a thousand expedients, the race-course, the bottle, or the gamingtable, the frivolities of fashion, the debasements of sensuality, the petty contentions of envy, the grovelling pursuits 10 of avarice, and all the various distracting agitations of vice. Call you these enjoyments? Is such the happiness which it is so dreadful to forego?

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"Vast happiness enjoy thy gay allies!
A youth of folly, an old age of cares,
Young yet enervate, old yet never wise;
Vice wastes their vigor and their mind impairs.
Vain, idle, dissolute, in thoughtless ease,

Reserving woes for age, their prime they spend ;
All wretched, hopeless, to the evil days,

With sorrow to the verge of life they tend;

Grieved with the present, of the past ashamed;

They live and are despised, they die, nor more are named."

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LESSON CLXI.--THE LYRE.-MILTON WARD.

There was a lyre, 't is said, that hung
High waving in the summer air;

An angel hand its chords had strung,
And left to breathe its music there.
Each wandering breeze, that o'er it flew,
Awoke a wilder, sweeter strain
Than ever shell of mermaid blew
In coral grottoes of the main.

When, springing from the rose's bell,
Where all night he had sweetly slept,
The zephyr left the flowery dell

Bright with the tears that morning wept,
He rose, and o'er the trembling lyre,

Waved lightly his soft azure wing;
What touch such music could inspire!
What harp such lays of joy could sing!
The murmurs of the shaded rills,

The birds, that sweetly warbled by,

And the soft echo from the hills,

Were heard not where that harp was nigh.

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When the last light of fading day
Along the bosom of the west,
In colors softly mingled lay

While night had darkened all the rest,
Then, softer than that fading light,

And sweeter than the lay, that rung
Wild through the silence of the night,
As solemn Philomela sung,
That harp its plaintive murmurs sighed
Along the dewy breeze of even;
So clear and soft they swelled and died,
They seemed the echoed songs of heaven.
Sometimes, when all the air was still,
And not the poplar's foliage trembled,
That harp was nightly heard to thrill
With tones, no earthly tones resembled.
And then, upon the moon's pale beams,

Unearthly forms were seen to stray,
Whose starry pinions' trembling gleams
Would oft around the wild harp play.
But soon the bloom of summer fled,-

In earth and air it shone no more;
Each flower and leaf fell pale and dead,
While skies their wintry sternness wore.
One day, loud blew the northern blast,
The tempest's fury raged along.
Oh! for some angel, as they passed,

To shield the harp of heavenly song!
It shrieked,-how could it bear the touch,
The cold rude touch of such a storm,
When e'en the zephyr seemed too much
Sometimes, though always light and warm!
It loudly shrieked,-but ah! in vain ;-
The savage wind more fiercely blew :
Once more, it never shrieked again,
For every chord was torn in two.
It never thrilled with anguish more,
Though beaten by the wildest blast;
The pang, that thus its bosom tore,

Was dreadful,-but it was the last.
And though the smiles of summer played
Gently upon its shattered form,
And the light zephyrs o'er it strayed,
That Lyre they could not wake or warm.

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