To be, or not to be, that is the question.
Num vivam, moriarve omnis! præstantius utrum
Esset, id in dubio est-num tela deceret iniquæ
Fortunæ, plagasque pati-num opponere pectus
Torrenti, finemque malis adhibere domando.
Quippe, mori-dormire,—interque oblivia somni
Quot mala cunque, silent vitæ, sævique dolores
Diffugiunt: miseris meta exoptanda laborum.
Quippe, mori-dormire-esto, dormire-sed ultrà
Quid? quod si excipiant lethalem somnia noctem,
Cum semel exuerit vitiosæ carnis amictum
Conscia mens, culpasque vacet revocare priores,
Quotquot longa dies, nimium, fors, longa tulisset—
Hinc desiderium, terrorque hinc temporis acti!
Ni foret, annorum casus questusque senectæ,-
Turpe supercilium, atque odium crudele tyranni,
Ambagesque moramque fori, fastusque superbi
Prætoris, spretique immitia tormina amoris,
Jactaque ab indignis convicia fœda merenti,
Quis tulerit? quis qui miseram sibi sistere vitam
Posset acu? quis clitellas sudare vehendo
Se sineret fassum? nisi quod mens inscia fati,
Et perculsa metu venturi littore in illo
Unde redux nemo, vestigia nulla retrorsùm,
Hæreat, et notos malit tolerare labores,
Quam temerè in tenebras ruere, ignotumque futurum.
Sic facit ignavos omnes mens conscia, forti
Si quid inest animo durum, et par fortibus actis
Protenus ambiguæ meditanti grandia curæ
Succedunt, validæ vires et mascula virtus
Pallescunt-incerta sibi mens quo sit eundum
Ægra manet, tandemque ingentibus excidit ausis.
Lines written by Langhorn under Mr. Bunbury's
picture of the dead Soldier.
[Sir Walter Scott had, once only, an interview with the poet Burns, whom he found wiping his eyes, having just read these lines.]
Cold on Canadian hills, or Minden's plain,
Perhaps, that mourner weeps her warrior slain.
Bends o'er her babe, her eyes o'erwhelm'd with dew,
The big drops mingling with the milk he drew,
Gave the sad presage of his future years —
The child of misery baptized in tears.
Stricta gelu, lacrymisque madens, post prælia, mater
Infantem tenero dum fovet alma sinu,
Vulneribus cæsum dolet heu! viduata maritum,
Et tam dilecto se superesse viro.
Incumbit puero lacrymans, puer inscius ipse
Combibit admixtum lac lacrymasque simul,
Ah! puer, ah! luctûs præsagia certa futuri,
Nasceris in lacrymis, et moriere miser.
On a White Rose presented by the Duke of Clarence, a Yorkist, to the Lady Elizabeth Beauchamp, a Lancastrian lady-as the legend has it.
If this white Rose offend thy sight,
It in thy bosom wear,
"Twill blush to find itself less white,
And turn Lancastrian there.
Congreve is said to have added the following stanza:-
But if thy ruby lip it spy,
To kiss it should'st thou deign,
With envy pale 'twill lose its dye,
And Yorkist turn again.
On the death of a young Lady named Rose.
Elle était de ce monde, où les plus belles
Choses ont le pire destin;
Et Rose vécut comme les roses
L'espace d'un matin.
Si, mea Cara! tibi rosa non arriserit alba,
Pone tuo nivibus candidiore sinu.
Tùm, minùs alba, dabit manifesti signa pudoris,
Atque erit ante oculos mox rosa rubra tuos.
Tu cave purpureis formosi gratia floris
Eliciat labris oscula crebra tuis,
Invida ne tanto vultusque orisque decore
Palleat, et fiat, quæ fuit, alba rosa.
Ah Rosa! fata vocant et quicquid amabile, quicquid
Formosum, aut præstans sit, cadit ante diem;
Tuque peris, velutì rosa, flos suavissimus horti,
Una dies flori contigit, una Rosæ.
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