Written by
Sir Walter Scott |
Bring the bowl which you boast,
Fill it up to the brim;
’Tis to him we love most,
And to all who love him.
Brave gallants, stand up,
And avaunt ye, base carles!
Were there death in the cup,
Here’s a health to King Charles.
Though he wanders through dangers,
Unaided, unknown,
Dependent on strangers,
Estranged from his own;
Though ’tis under our breath,
Amidst forfeits and perils,
Here’s to honor and faith,
And a health to King Charles!
Let such honors abound
As the time can afford,
The knee on the ground,
And the hand on the sword;
But the time shall come round
When, ’mid Lords, Dukes, and Earls,
The loud trumpet shall sound,
Here’s a health to King Charles!
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Written by
Ben Jonson |
XII.
? ON LIEUTENANT SHIFT.
SHIFT, here in town, not meanest among squires,
That haunt Pickt-hatch, Marsh-Lambeth, and White-friars,
Keeps himself, with half a man, and defrays
The charge of that state, with this charm, god pays.
By that one spell he lives, eats, drinks, arrays
Himself : his whole revenue is, god pays.
The quarter-day is come ; the hostess says,
She must have money : he returns, god pays.
The tailor brings a suit home : he it says,
Look's o'er the bill, likes it : and says, god pays.
He steals to ordinaries ; there he plays
At dice his borrow'd money : which, god pays.
Then takes up fresh commodities, for days ;
Signs to new bonds ; forfeits ; and cries, god pays.
That lost, he keeps his chamber, reads essays,
Takes physic, tears the papers : still god pays.
Or else by water goes, and so to plays ;
Calls for his stool, adorns the stage : god pays.
To every cause he meets, this voice he brays :
His only answer is to all, god pays.
Not his poor cockatrice but he betrays
Thus ; and for his lechery, scores, god pays.
But see ! the old bawd hath serv'd him in his trim,
Lent him a pocky whore.
?She hath paid him.
[ AJ Notes:
l.
9 He it says, he it assays, i.
e.
, tries it on.
l.
11 Steals to ordinaries, goes to taverns.
l.
16 Physic, medicine.
l.
23 In his trim, in his own fashion, i.
e.
, she has given him
a taste of his own medicine.
l.
24 Pocky, diseased.
]
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Written by
George Meredith |
It is no vulgar nature I have wived.
Secretive, sensitive, she takes a wound
Deep to her soul, as if the sense had swooned,
And not a thought of vengeance had survived.
No confidences has she: but relief
Must come to one whose suffering is acute.
O have a care of natures that are mute!
They punish you in acts: their steps are brief.
What is she doing? What does she demand
From Providence or me? She is not one
Long to endure this torpidly, and shun
The drugs that crowd about a woman's hand.
At Forfeits during snow we played, and I
Must kiss her.
'Well performed!' I said: then she:
''Tis hardly worth the money, you agree?'
Save her? What for? To act this wedded lie!
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