with a beautiful gloss and varnish; everything he says or does is accompanied with a manner, or rather a charm, that draws the admiration and good-will of every beholder.

TRUTH.

LORD BACON.

yet

THE first creature of God in the works of the days, was the light of the sense, the last was the light of reason; and His Sabbath work ever since is the illumination of the Spirit. First he breathed light upon the face of matter or chaos; then he breathed light into the face of man; and still he breatheth and inspireth light into the face of his chosen. The poet that beautified the sect that was otherwise inferior to the rest, saith excellently well, "It is a pleasure to stand upon the shore and to see ships tossed upon the sea; a pleasure to stand in the window of a castle, and to see a battle and the adventurers thereof below; but no pleasure is comparable to standing upon the vantage-ground of truth (a hill not to be commanded), and where the air is always clear and serene, and to see the errors and wanderings, and mists and tempests in the vale below; so always that this prospect be with pity, and not with swelling or pride." Certainly it is heaven upon earth to have a man's mind move in charity, rest in Providence, and turn upon the poles of truth.

PHAON, THE FERRYMAN.

JOHN LYLY.

THOU art a ferryman, Phaon, yet a freeman; possessing for riches content, and for honors quiet. Thy thoughts are no higher than thy fortunes, nor thy desires greater than thy calling. Who climbeth, standeth on glass and falleth on thorn. Thy heart's thirst is satisfied with thy hand's thrift and thy gentle labors in the day turn to sweet slumbers in the night.

Envy never casteth her eye low, ambition pointeth always upward, and revenge barketh only at stars. Thou farest delicately if thou have a fare to buy anything. Thine angle is ready when thy oar is idle; and as sweet as the fish which thou gettest in the river is the fowl which others buy in the market.

Thou needest not fear poison in thy glass nor treason in thy guard. The wind is thy greatest enemy whose might is withstood by policy.

O sweet life! seldom found under a golden covert, often under a thatched cottage!

DEATH'S FINAL CONQUEST.
JAMES SHIRLEY.

THE glories of our birth and state

Are shadows, not substantial things;

There is no armor against Fate ;

Death lays his icy hand on kings!

Sceptre and crown,

Must tumble down,

And in the dust be equal made

With the poor crooked scythe and spade.

Some men with swords may reap the field,

And plant fresh laurels where they kill; But their strong nerves at last must yield, They tame but one another still. Early or late,

They stoop to Fate,

And must give up their murmuring breath, When they, pale captives, creep to Death.

The garlands wither on your brow! Then boast no more your mighty deeds: Upon Death's purple altar now

See where the victor-victim bleeds!

All heads must come

To the cold tomb:

Only the actions of the just

Smell sweet, and blossom in the dust.

THE SEVEN AGES.

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.

ALL the world's a stage,

And all the men and women merely players : They have their exits and their entrances; And one man in his time plays many parts,

His acts being seven ages.

At first the infant,

Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms:

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 woeful 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 instances,
And so he plays his part: the sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slippered pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose, and pouch on side,
His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide.
For his shrunk shank; and his big manly voice,
Turning again towards childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound: Last scene of all
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness, and mere oblivion;
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.

POLONIUS TO LAERTES.

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.

YET here, Laertes! aboard, aboard, for shame;
The wind sits in the shoulder of your sail,

And you are stay'd for There, my blessing with you!
And these few precepts in thy memory

See thou charácter. Give thy thoughts no tongue,
Nor any unproportioned thought his act.
Be thou familiar, but by no means vulgar.
The friends thou hast, and their adoption tried,
Grapple them to thy soul with hoops of steel;
But do not dull thy palm with entertainment
Of each new-hatched, unfledged comrade. Beware
Of entrance to a quarrel: but, being in,

Bear 't, that the opposed may beware of thee.
Give every man thine ear, but few thy voice:
Take each man's censure, but reserve thy judgment.
Costly thy habit as thy purse can buy,

But not expressed 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;
And borrowing dulls the edge of husbandry.
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!