VIOLA.

Duke.-How dost thou like this tune? Viola.-It gives a very echo to the seat Where Love is thronea.

Duke.-Thou dost speak masterly;

My life upon't, young though thou art, thine

eye

Hath stay'd upon some favour that it loves;
Hath it not, boy?

Viola.-A little, by your favour.
Duke.-What kind of woman is't?

Viola.

Of your complexion.

Duke. She is not worth thee, then. What

years, i' faith?

Viola.-About your years, my lord.

Duke.-Too old, by heaven; Let still the woman take

An elder than herself; so wears she to him, So

sways she level in her husband's heart. For, boy, however we do praise ourselves, Our fancies are more giddy and unfirm, More longing, wavering, sooner lost and worn, Than women's are.

Viola.

I think it well, my lord.

Duke.-Then let thy love be younger than

thyself,

Or thy affection cannot hold the bent;

For women are as roses; whose fair flower, Being once displayed, doth fall that very hour. Viola.-And so they are; alas, that they

are so;

To die, even when they to perfection grow!

My father had a daughter loved a man,
As it might be, perhaps, were I a woman,
I should your lordship.

Duke. And what's her history?

Viola.-A blank, my lord: she never told her love,

But let concealment, like a worm i' the bud, Feed on her damask cheek; she pined in thought;

And, with a green and yellow melancholy, She sat like Patience on a monument, Smiling at grief. Was not this love indeed?

SHAKSPERE.

FRAGMENT.

THOU art the wine whose drunkenness is all We can desire, O Love! and happy souls, Ere from thy vine the leaves of autumn fall, Catch thee, and feed from their o'erflowing bowls

Thousands who thirst for thy ambrosial dew: Thou art the radiance which, where ocean rolls,

Investeth it; and when the heavens are blue
Thou fillest them; and when the earth is fair,
The shadows of thy moving wings imbue
Its deserts and its mountains, till they wear
Beauty like some bright robe;—thou ever

soarest

Among the towers of men; and as soft air In spring which moves the unawaken'd forest, Clothing with leaves its branches bare and bleak,

Thou floatest among men ; and aye implorest That which from thee they should implore:→

the weak

G

Alone kneel to thee, offering up the hearts The strong have broken-yet, where shall any seek

A garment, whom thou clothest not?

ODE.

FROM ANACREON.

SHELLEY.

WHEN Spring adorns the dewy scene,
How sweet to walk the velvet green,
And hear the west wind's gentle sighs,
As o'er the scented mead it flies!

How sweet to mark the pouting vine,
Ready to burst in tears of wine;

And with some maid, who breathes but love,
To walk at noontide, through the grove,
Or sit in some cool, green recess―

Oh, is not this true happiness?

T. MOORE.

LET ME TWINE A WREATH OF ROSES.

LET me twine a wreath of roses,
Where the fairies' steps have been,
Round thy brow where sweet reposes,
The bloom and beauty of their queen;
And as I mingle them among
The tresses of thy golden hair,
I'll sing to thee a soothing song,
Of love, and roses, oh! so fair.

And as thou heark'nest to the tone,
That binds thee with its magic thrall,
Thy gentle, dreaming heart will own
That music's sigh is best of all;
And I will sing and still twine on,
. Until I've weav'd the rosy chain,
And when the song and odour's done,
Thou'lt ask me to begin again.

H. MUNROE.