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Come, companion, let us hurry,
That we may be early home;
For my mother-in-law is cross!
Only yestreen she accused me—
Said that I had beat my husband,
When, poor soul, I had not touched him;
Only bid him wash the dishes,

And he would not wash the dishes;
Threw, then, at his head the pitcher;
Knocked a hole in head and pitcher;
For the head I do not care much;
But I care much for the pitcher,
As I paid for it right dearly-
Paid for it with one wild apple-
Yes, and half a one besides.

Translated by TALVI.

LINES.

She dwelt among the untrodden ways,
Beside the springs of Dove;

A maid whom there were none to praise,
And very few to love:

A violet by a mossy stone,
Half hidden from the eye!
Fair as a star, when only one

Is shining in the sky.

She lived unknown-and few could know

When Lucy ceased to be;

But she is in her grave, and oh!

The difference to me!

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH, 1770-1850.

THE BALADE OF THE SHEPHARDE.

FROM THE "KALENDAR OF SHEPHARDES."

I know that God hath formed me,
And made me to his own likenesse :
I know that he hath given to me truly
Soul and body-wit and knowledge givis.
I know that by right wise true balance,
After my deeds judged shall I be.

I know much, but I wot not the variance,
To understand whereof cometh my folly.

I know full well that I shall die,
And yet my life amend not I.

I know in what poverty,

Born a child this earth above.
I know that God hath lent to me
Abundance of goods to my behoof.
I know that riches can me not save,
And with me I shall bear none away.
I know the more good I have,
The loather I shall be to die.

I know all this faithfully,

And yet my life amend not I.

I know that I have passed

Great part of my days with joy and pleasaunce.

I know that I have gathered

Sins, and also do little penance.

I know that by ignorance,

To excuse me there is no art.

I know that once shall be

When my soul shall depart

That I shall wish that I had mended me.
I know there is no remedy,

And therefore my life amend I will!

RICHARD PYNSON, 16th centu y.

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SEV

Duke of Orleans, have been inserted in this volume; and as the American reader is seldom very familiar with French poets, we shall venture to give a little sketch of their author. Charles d'Orleans was born in 1391, and his life was highly colored by the vicissitudes of that stormy period. He was a nephew of the unhappy Charles VI., and was still a mere lad when, in 1406, his father Louis, Duke of Orleans, and regent of the kingdom, was assassinated in the streets of Paris, an event which placed the youth at once in nominal possession of his father's duchy. The crime was laid at the door of John the Fearless, Duke of Burgundy; and the widowed princess, Valentine Visconti, urged doubtless by the nobles of her political party, sought every possible means of bringing the offender to punishment; a criminal suit, extraordinary in its details, stands recorded in the French annals in connection

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