And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of great pith and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action.
Faith unfaithful.
KING JOHN III. I. ́
PHIL. I may disjoin my hand, but not my faith.
PAND. So makest thou faith an enemy to faith;
And like a civil war set'st oath to oath,
Thy tongue against thy tongue. O, let thy vow
First made to heaven, first be to heaven perform’d
That is, to be the champion of our church!
What since thou sworest is sworn against thyself
And may not be performed by thyself,
For that which thou hast sworn to do amiss
Is not amiss when it is truly done,
And being not done, where doing tends to ill,
The truth is then most done not doing it :
The better act of purposes mistook
Is to mistake again; though indirect,
Yet indirection thereby grows direct,
And falsehood falsehood cures, as fire cools fire
Within the scorched veins of one newly-burn'd.
It is religion that doth make vows kept;
But thou hast sworn against religion,
By what thou swear'st against the thing thou swear'st,
And makest an oath the surety for thy truth
χροιᾶς τόδ' ἄνθος τοῦ σφριγῶντος ἱμέρου,
τὸ δ' ἀσθενείας χλωρὸν ἀνταλλάσσομεν·
ὡς εὐσταλής περ οὖσα κἀξία λόγου
ἐξ οὐρίων ποτ ̓ ἔδραμεν ἡ προθυμία,
ἀπώλεσεν δὲ κληδόν ̓ ἀβλαβοῦς δρόμου.
ΘΝΗΣΚΕΙ ΔΕ ΠΙΣΤΙΣ ΒΛΑΣΤΑΝΕΙ Δ' ΑΠΙΣΤΙΑ.
Φ. Λῦσαι γὰρ ἔστι δεξιάς, πίστιν δ ̓ ἄρ ̓ οὐ.
Π. πίστιν δ ̓ ἄρ ̓ ὧδε πίστεως ἐχθρὰν τίθης,
ἐξαγριώσας, ὡς Αρης ἐμφύλιος,
ὅρκοισιν ὅρκον καὶ λόγον λόγοις· σὺ δ ̓ οὖν
ἃ πρῶτ ̓ ἐπηύχου τοῖς θεοῖς, θεῶν μέτα
ἐργαστές· ἡμῶν, φημί, σύμμαχος γενοῦ
ἱεροῖσιν, ἁπηύχου γὰρ ὕστερον χρόνῳ
σαυτοῦ κατ' ηὔχου καί σε μὴ τελεῖν χρέων·
ὃ γὰρ σὺ πράξειν μὴ καλῶς ὀμώμοκας
ἔχει καλῶς εἰ σὺν δίκῃ πεπράξεται.
ἄπρακτον οὖν ὄν, ὡς πεπραχέναι κακόν,
φύει μάλιστα, μὴ πεπραγμένον, δίκην.
τὸ γοῦν ἄριστον, ὡς ἐφ' ἡμαρτημένοις,
διπλῶς ἁμαρτεῖν, σκολιὰ δ ̓ ὄντα, τῇδ' ὁμῶς
εὐθύνεται, καὶ ψεῦδος ἰᾶται ψύθη,
ἀρτηρίαισιν ὥσπερ ἠνθρακωμένου
ἄρτι σταθευταῖς καῦμα καύσεως ἄκος.
εὐχαῖς δίδωσιν εὐσέβεια μὲν κράτος,
σὺ δ ̓ εὐσεβείας ἀντίον κατώμοσας
καθ ̓ οὗ κατώμνυς γ', ἀντὶ τοῦδε πράγματος,
τῆς δ' ἀτρεκείας ἐγγύην τῆς σῆς τίθης
ECAUSE bright jewels my fair bosom deck,
And Love's hot lips-close press'd—cling fast to mine,
Because rose-garlands crown the cups of wine,
And all Love's ministers are at my beck.
Think you I mourn-repent-or aught I reck
How tongues wag? Think you that I weep and pine,
Shedding sad tears as bitter salt sea-brine,
Because his arms lie warm around my neck?
Look you! we live but once-this life I know;
No other wot I of beyond the tomb-
I laugh to scorn your devils down below—
Your torture-fires—your everlasting gloom!
I seek no heaven, I dread no God above,
I fear no hell, save living without Love!".
ECAUSE my treasure knows nor moth nor rust,
Because I live in holy peaceful rest
In sacred maidenhood on God's own breast,
And in His loving mercy put my trust,
Therefore I fear no taint of sin or lust;
Espoused to Him, in mystic union blest,
I work unceasingly in His behest,
Whose ways are pure, and sanctified and just.
He loves me, and no love of man I crave,
At best 'tis link'd with some desire of sin,
Whilst here I serve Him,-when I pass the grave,
My Bridegroom waiteth me to lead me in
To His own place,-Lord Christ, who lovest me,
Deign to receive my life's virginity!"
WE stray'd along the shingly shore,
Me and my second coz ;
But never not again no more
Will those days come back to us!
We roam❜d beside the raging main,
My second coz and me;
But never not no more again
Shall I ever roam with he!
We gazed across the gloomy tide,
Great tears bedew'd each lid;
And then committed suicide-
My second cousin did.
He sank, like a goblet, into the sea :-
So frantic was his state,
He rush'd with joy on death, did he—
But I am content to wait.
O days that come not back to us!
Ah, shingle, and O shore!
O me, and ah, my second coz!!
O never again no more!
English Bards and Scotch Reviewers.
HY slumbers Gifford? once was ask'd in vain.
Why slumbers Gifford? let us ask again.
Are there no follies for his pen to purge?
Are there no fools whose backs demand the scourge ?
Are there no sins for Satire's bard to greet?
Stalks not gigantic vice in every street?
Shall peers or princes tread pollution's path,
And 'scape alike the law's and Muse's wrath?
Nor blaze with guilty glare through future time,
Eternal beacons of consummate crime?
Arouse thee, Gifford! be thy promise claim'd,
Make bad men better, or at least ashamed!
HILD of a day, thou knowest not
The tears that overflow thine urn,
The gushing eyes that read thy lot;
Nor if thou knewest, could'st return!
And why the wish? The pure and blest
Watch like thy mother o'er thy sleep;
O peaceful night! O envied rest!
Thou wilt not ever see her weep.
"Men who have risen."
ÑOSNE satos terra contemnit Trossulus? Esto;
It tua progenies, Terra superba, Gigas.
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