And then the whining schoolboy, with his satchel,

And shining morning face, creeping like snail

Unwillingly to school: and then the lover,

Sighing like furnace, with a woful ballad

Made to his mistress' eyebrow: then a soldier,

Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard,

Jealous in honor, sudden and quick in quarrel,

Seeking the bubble reputation Even in the cannon's mouth: and then the justice

In fair round belly, with good capon lined,

With eyes severe, and beard of formal cut,

Full of wise saws and modern in

SUN-DIAL.

THE shadow on the dial's face,
That steals from day to day,
With slow, unseen, unceasing pace,
Moments and months, and years
away;

This shadow, which, in every clime,
Since light and motion first began,
Hath held its course sublime;
What is it? mortal man!
It is the scythe of Time.
Not only o'er the dial's face,
This silent phantom, day by day,
With slow, unseen, unceasing pace,
Steals moments, months, and years

Can yet the lease of my true love control,

Supposed as forfeit to a confined doom.

The mortal moon hath her eclipse endured,

And the sad augurs mock their own presage;

Incertainties now crown themselves assured,

And peace proclaims olives of endless age.

Now with the drops of this most balmy time

My love looks fresh, and Death to me subscribes,

Since spite of him, I'll live in this poor rhyme,

While he insults o'er dull and speechless tribes.

And thou in this shalt find thy monument,

When tyrants' crests and tombs of brass are spent.

SHAKSPEARE.

GOOD OMENS.

NOT mine own fears, nor the prophetic soul

Of the wide world dreaming on things to come,

DESTINY.

THE Destiny, Minister General,
That executeth in the world o'er all
The purveiance that God hath seen
beforne;

So strong it is, that though the world had sworn

I see how plentie surfeits oft,

And hasty climbers soonest fall; I see that such as sit aloft

Mishap doth threaten most of all. These get with toil, and keep with fear;

Such cares my mind could never bear.

No princely pomp nor wealthy store,
No force to win the victory,
No wily wit to salve a sore,

No shape to win a lover's eye-
To none of these I yield as thrall;
For why, my mind despiseth all.

Some have too much, yet still they crave;

I little have, yet seek no more. They are but poor, though much they have;

And I am rich with little store. They poor, I rich; they beg, I give; They lack, I lend; they pine, I live.

I laugh not at another's loss,

I grudge not at another's gaine; No worldly wave my mind can toss; I brook that is another's bane. I feare no foe, nor fawn on friend; I loathe not life, nor dread mine end.

I joy not in no earthly blisse;

I weigh not Croesus' wealth a straw;

For care, I care not what it is;

I fear not fortune's fatal law;
My mind is such as may not move
For beauty bright, or force of love.

I wish but what I have at will;
I wander not to seek for more;
like the plain, I climb no hill;
In greatest storms I sit on shore,
And laugh at them that toil in vain
To get what must be lost again.

I kisse not where I wish to kill;

I feign not love where most I hate; 1 break no sleep to win my will;

I wait not at the mighty's gate.
I scorn no poor, I fear no rich;
I feel no want, nor have too much.

The court nor cart I like nor loathe;

Extremes are counted worst of all; The golden mean betwixt them both Doth surest sit, and fears no fall;

This is my choyce; for why, I find No wealth is like a quiet mind.

My wealth is health and perfect ease;

My conscience clear my chief defence;

I never seek by bribes to please,

Nor by desert to give offence. Thus do I live, thus will I die; Would all did so as well as I! WILLIAM BYRD.

AN HONEST MAN'S FORTUNE. You that can look through Heaven, and tell the stars,

Observe their kind conjunctions, and their wars;

Find out new lights, and give them where you please,

To these men honors, pleasures, to those ease;

You that are God's surveyors, and can show

How far, and when, and why the wind doth blow;

Know all the charges of the dreadful thunder,

And when it will shoot over, or fall under:

Tell me, by all your art I conjure ye, Yes, and by truth, what shall be

come of me?