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Give every man thine ear, but few thy voice.

Take each man's censure, (1) but reserve thy judgment.

Costly thy habit as thy purse can buy,
But not express'd in fancy; rich, not gaudy,
For the apparel oft proclaims the man;
And they in France, of the best rank and
station,

Are most select and generous, chief in that.
Neither a borrower nor a lender be,
For loan oft loses both itself and friend, 20
And borrowing dulls the edge of hus-
bandry. (2)

This above all: to thine own self be true,
And it must follow, as the night the day,
Thou canst not then be false to any man.
Farewell; my blessing season this in thee.
(Hamlet I, 3.)

OUTWARD SHOW.

The world is still deceiv'd with ornament. In law, what plea so tainted and corrupt, But, being season'd with a gracious voice, Obscures the show of evil? In religion, What damned error, but some sober brow Will bless it, and approve it with a text, Hiding the grossness with fair ornament? There is no vice so simple but assumes Some mark of virtue on his outward parts. How many cowards, whose hearts are as false As stairs of sand, wear yet upon their chins, The beards of Hercules and frowning Mars, Who, inward searched, have livers white as milk;

And these assume but valour's excrement,
To render them redoubted. Look on beauty,
And you shall see 'tis purchased by the
weight,

Which therein works a miracle in nature,
Making them lightest that wear most of it.
So are those crisped snaky golden locks,
Which make such wanton gambols with
the wind,
Upon supposed fairness, often known
To be the dowry of a second head,
The scull that bred them, in the sepulchre.
(Merch, of Ven. III, 2.)

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TRANSITORY GLORIES.

Be cheerful, sir,
Our revels now are ended. These our actors,
As I foretold you, were all spirits, and
Are melted into air, into thin air:
And, like the baseless fabric of this vision,
The cloud-capp'd towers, the gorgeous
palaces,

The solemn temples, the great globe itself,
Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve
And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,
Leave not a rack behind. We are such
stuff
As dreams are made on, and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep.

(The Tempest IV, 1.)

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HUMAN LIFE.

Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player

stage

To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow, That struts and frets his hour upon the
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day
To the last syllable of recorded time,
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusky death. Out, out, brief

candle,

5

And then is heard no more: it is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.
(Macbeth V, 5.)

BEN JONSON.

BEN EN JONSON was born at Westminster in the year 1574, where he was educated in a grammar school. The death of his father took place before his birth, and his mother's second husband, a bricklayer, obliged his stepson to follow his own avocation. Ben, however, ran away and served as a soldier in the Low Countries. On his return to England he studied at Cambridge, but the want of funds prevented his staying there. In 1596 he commenced his career as an author by publishing a comedy, 'Every Man in his Humour,' which found favour with Queen Elizabeth, and Jonson's reputation was at once made. This was followed by a number of comedies and tragedies, as for instance Cynthia's Revels,' 'Sejanus, Eastward Hoe' (written in conjunction with Chapman and Marston, for which the three were imprisoned a considerable period), 'Volpone or the Fox.'

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'Epicene or the Silent Woman, The Alchemist' and "The Devil is an Ass. In 1614 the University of Oxford conferred upon him the degree of Master of Arts, and in 1619 he obtained the office of Poet Laureate with a pension. From 1625 his health began to decline, and the productions of his pen showed no longer the same vigour they are styled by Dryden his dotages. His latest com positions were The Magnetic Lady' (1632) and The Tale of a Tub' (1634). He left a very beautiful unfinished drama, entitled "The Sad Shepherd,' and died in 1637, at the age af sixty-three. His scenes and characters exhibit an extensive knowledge of life, and his comic characters, though often exaggerated, bear evidence of wit, of which, however, he was rather frugal. On his tomb in Westminster-Abbey was inscribed this epigram: 'O Rare Ben Jonson.'

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HYMN TO DIANA. Queen and huntress, chaste and fair, Now the sun is laid to sleep; Seated in thy silver chair,

State in wonted manner keep.
Hesperus entreats thy light,
Goddess excellently bright!

Earth, let not thy envious shade
Dare itself to interpose;
Cynthia's shining orb was made
Heaven to clear (2) when day did close; 10
Bless us then with wished sight,
Goddess excellently bright!

Lay thy bow of pearl apart,

And thy crystal shining quiver:

Give unto the flying heart,

Space to breathe, how short soever; Thou that mak'st a day of night, Goddess excellently bright!

THE SWEET NEGLECT.

Still to be neat, still to be drest,
As you were going to a feast;
Still to be powder'd, still perfum'd:
Lady, it is to be presum'd,

O, could I lose all father, now! for why, 5
Will man lament the state he should envy?
To have so soon 'scaped world's, and flesh's

rage,

And, if no other misery, yet age!
Rest in soft peace, and ask'd, say here
doth lie

Ben Jonson his best piece of poetry:

10

For whose sake henceforth all his vows be such,

As what he loves may never like too much.

ON MARGARET RATCLIFFE.
Marble, weep, for thou dost cover
5 A dead beauty underneath thee,
Rich as nature could bequeath thee:
Grant then, no rude hand remove her.
All the gazers on the skies
Read not in fair heaven's story,
Expresser truth, or truer glory,
Than they might in her bright eyes.

Rare as wonder was her wit;
And, like nectar, ever flowing:
Till time, strong by her bestowing,
Conquer'd hath both life and it;

15 Life, whose grief was out of fashion
In these times. Few so have rued
Fate in a brother. To conclude,
For wit, feature, and true passion,
Earth, thou hast not such another.

5

Though art's hid causes are not found,
All is not sweet, all is not sound.
Give me a look, give me a face,
That makes simplicity and grace;
Robes loosely flowing, hair as free,
Such sweet neglect more taketh me
Than all the adulteries of art:
They strike mine eyes, but not mine heart.

ON MY FIRST SON.

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Farewell, thou child of my right hand, and joy;

My sin was too much hope of thee, lov'd

Seven

bov:

years thou wert lent to me, and I
thee pay,

Exacted by thy fate, on the just day.
(1) Spikenard. (2) Enlighten.

5

10

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ADVICE TO A RECKLESS YOUTH.
What would I have you do? I'll tell
you, kinsman;

Learn to be wise, and practise how to
thrive.
That would I have you do: and not to
spend

Your coin on every bauble that you fancy,
Or every foolish brain that humours you. 5
I would not have you to invade each place,
Nor thrust yourself on all societies,
Till men's affections, or your own desert,
Should worthily invite you to your rank.
He that it so respectless in his courses, 10
Oft sells his reputation at cheap market.
Nor would I you should melt away yourself
In flashing bravery, lest, while you affect
To make a blaze of gentry to the world,
A little puff of scorn extinguish it,
And you be left like an unsavoury snuff, (1)
Whose property is only to offend.
I'd ha' you sober, and contain yourself;
Not that your sail be bigger than your boat;

(1) Burnt-out wick of a candle.

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was.

The sun stood still, and was, behind the cloud

But moderate your expenses now (at first) 20 | They knew not what a crime their valour
As you may keep the same proportion still.
Nor stand so much on your gentility,
Which is an airy, and mere borrow'd thing
From dead men's dust, and bones; and
none of yours,
Except you make, or hold it.

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THE FALL OF CATILINE. Petreius. The straits and needs of Catiline being such, As he must fight with one of the two armies

That then had near inclosed him, it pleas'd fate

To make us the object of his desperate choice,

Wherein the danger almost pois'd the honour: 5 And, as he rose, the day grew black with him,

And fate descended nearer to the earth,
As if she meant to hide the name of things
Under her wings, and make the world her
quarry. (1)

At this we roused, lest one small minute's
stay
10
Had left it to be inquired what Rome was;
And (as we ought) arm'd in the confidence
Of our great cause, in form of battle stood,
Whilst Catiline came on, not with the face
Of any man, but of a public ruin;
His countenance was a civil war itself;
And all his host had, standing in their
looks,

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The paleness of the death that was to

come;

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Yet cried they out like vultures, and urged on,
As if they would precipitate our fates.
Nor stay'd we longer for 'em, but himself
Struck the first stroke, and with it fled a
life,

Which out, it seem'd a narrow neck of land,

Had broke between two mighty seas, and either

Flow'd into other; for so did the slaughter;
And whirl'd about, as when two violent
tides
The furies stood on
hills,
and trembling to see

Meet and not yield.
Circling the place,
Do more than they; whilst pity left the
field,
Griev'd for that side, that in so bad a

(1) Prey.

men

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The battle made, seen sweating, to drive up His frighted horse, whom still the noise drove backward;

And now had fierce Enyo, like a flame 35 Consum'd all it could reach, and then itself, Had not the fortune of the commonwealth, Come, Pallas-like, to every Roman thought: Which Catiline seeing, and that now his troops

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Cover'd the earth they 'ad fought on with their trunks, Ambitious of great fame, to crown his ill Collected all his fury, and ran in (Arm'd with a glory high as his despair) Into our battle, like a Libyan lion Upon his hunters, scornful of our weapons, 43 Careless of wounds, plucking down lives about him,

Till he had circled on himself with death: Then fell he too, t'embrace it where it lay. And as in that rebellion 'gainst the gods, Minerva holding forth Medusa's head, One of the giant brethren felt himself Grow marble at the killing sight; and now, Almost made stone, began to inquire what flint, that crept through all his limbs; And, ere he could think more, was that he fear'd:

What rock, it was

So Catiline, at the sight of Rome in us,
Became his tomb; yet did his look retain
Some of his fierceness, and his hands still
mov'd,

As if he labour'd yet to grasp the state &
With those rebellious parts.
Cato.
A brave bad death!
Had this been honest now, and for his
country,
As 'twas against it, who had e'er fall'n
greater?

TOWERING SENSUALITY.

Sir Epicure Mammon, expecting to obtain the Phisopher's Stone, riots in the anticipation of enjoymer?. Enter Mammon and Surly. Mam. Come on, sir. Now, you set your foot on shore In Novo Orbe: here's the rich Peru: And there within, sir, are the golden mines. Great Solomon's Ophir! he was sailing tot Three years; but we have reach'd it in te months.

This is the day, wherein, to all my friends, | I will pronounce the happy word, Be Rich.

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