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BLOW, winds, and burit your cheeks---rage louder yet:
Fantaftic lightning, finge, finge my white head.-
Spout cataracts, and hurricanoes fall;

Till you have drown'd the towns and palaces
Of proud ungrateful man.

RUMBLE thy fill; fight whirlwind, rain and fire-
Not fire, wind, rain, or thunder, are my daughters.
I tax not you, ye elements, with unkindness :
I never gave you kingdoms, call'd you children:
You owe me no obedience. Then, let fall
Your horrible pleasure--here I ftand your flave,
A poor, infirm, weak, and defpis'd old man.
Yet I will call you fervile minifters,

That have with two pernicious daughters, join'd
Your high engender'd battle 'gainst a head
So old and white as mine.---Oh! oh! 'tis foul.
LET the great gods,

That keep this dreadful pudder o'er our heads,
Find out their enemies now.--Tremble, thou wretch,
That haft within thee undifcover'd crimes.

Hide, hide, thou murd'rer, hide thy bloody hand.
Thou perjur'd villain, holy hypocrite,

That drink'ft the widow's tears, figh now, and ask
Thefe dreadful fummoners grace.-

More finn'd againft, than finning.

My wits begin to burn

-I am a man,

Come on, my boy; how doft, my boy? Art cold?
I'm cold myfelf---fhew me this ftraw, fellow:
The art of our neceffity is ftrange,

And can make vile things precious.---My poor knave,

Cold as I am at heart, I've one place there

That's forry yet for thee.

THOU think'ft 'tis much that this contentious form

Invades us to the fkin; fo 'tis to thee:


But, where the greater malady is fix'd,

The leffer is fcarce felt the tempeft in mind
Does from my fenfes take all feeling else,
Save what beats there.- -Filial ingratitude!-
Is it not as this mouth should tear this hand

For lifting food to't!

To fhut me out!

-In fuch a night
-Pour on, I will endure-

In fuch a night as this?—O Regan, Goneril!
Your old kind father, whose frank heart gave all-
O that way madness lies! let me fhun that-
No more of that.

POOR naked wretches, wherefoe'er you are,
That 'bide the pelting of this pitiless storm ;
How fhall your houseless heads and unfed fides
Sustain this fhock? your raggedness defend you
From feafons fuch as thefe ?

Oh! I have ta’en too little care of this.

Take phyfic, Pomp!

Expose thyself to feel what wretches feel,
That thou may'ft caft the fuperflux to them,
And fhew the Heav'ns more just.

YE amaranths! ye rofes, like the morn!
Sweet myrtles, and ye golden orange groves!
Joy-giving, love-inspiring, holy bow'r !
Know, in thy fragrant bofom thou receiv'st
Amurd'rer ! Oh, I fhall ftain thy lilies,
And horror will ufurp the feat of bliss.
Ha! the deeps

The day's uncommon heat has overcome her. ;
Then, take, my longing eyes, your laft full gaze
Oh, what a fight is here! how dreadful fair!-

Who would not think that being innocent?

Where fhall I strike ?-Who strikes her, strikes himself


My own life-blood will iffue at her wound-
But, fee, the smiles !-I never fhall smile moré-
It strongly tempts me to a parting kifs

Ha! fmile again ?-She dreams of him fhe loves.-
Curfe on her charms !-I'll ftab her through them all.

WHAT noife is this!-not dead? not yet quite dead ?—
'Tis Emelia-by and by-she's dead !—

'Tis like she comes to speak of Caffio's death-
The noife was high-Ha! no more moving?
Still as the grave.-Shall fhe come in? were't good?-
I think the ftirs again-No-what's the best ?-
If she comes in, the'll fure fpeak to my wife-
My wife my wife !-what wife I have no wife.-
Oh, infupportable! oh heavy hour!

WHAT a damn'd epicurean rascal is this I! My heart is ready to crack with impatience. Who fays this is improvident jealoufy? My wife hath

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fent to him; the
Would any man

hour is fix'd; the match is made.
have thought this? See the hell of having a falfe wo-
man! My bed fhall be abused, my coffers ranfacked,
my reputation gnawn at; and I-fhall not only receive
this villanous wrong, but ftand under the adoption of
abominable terms and by him that does me wrong.
Amaimon founds well, Lucifer well, Barbafon well;
yet they are devils additions, the names of fiends; but
cuckold, wittol, cuckold-the devil himself hath not
fuch a name -Page is an-afs, à fecure afs- he will trust
his wife; he will not be jealous, nd will rather truft a
Flaming with my butter; parfon Hugh, the Welsh-
man, with my cheese; an Irifman with my aquavitæ
bottle ; or a thief to walk my ambling gelding; than
my wife with herself. Then, fhe plots; then, she ru-


minates; then, fhe devifes: and what they think in their hearts they may effect, they will break their hearts but they will effect. Heaven be praised for my jealousy! Eleven o'clock is the hour. I will prevent this detect my wife; be revenged on Falstaff; and laugh at Page. -I will about it. Better three hours too foon, than a minute too late.-Fy, fy, fy !-cuckold, cuckold, cuckold-O the devil!

HUM! ha! is this a vifion? Is this a dream? Do I fleep? Mafter Ford, awake; awake, Mafter Ford: there's a hole made in your best coat, Mafter Ford. This 'tis to be married! This 'tis to have linen and buck-baskets!Well, I will proclaim myfelf what I am. I will now take the letcher. He is at my house. He cannot 'efcape me. 'Tis impoffible he should. He cannot creep into a half-penny purse, nor into a pepperbox. But, left the devil, that guides him, fhould aid him, I will fearch impoffible places. Though what I am; I cannot avoid, yet to be what I would not, fhall not make me tame. If I have horns to make one mad, let the proverb go with me-I'll be horn mad.




'OW, every thing doth make a gleeful scene. The birds chant melody on every bush; The fnake lies rolled in the chearful fun;

The green leaves quiver with the cooling wind,
And make a chequer'd fhadow on the ground.


*This article, and, the following, fhould have preceded the

examples of Joy.

Under their sweet fhade let us fit a while,

-And hear the babbling echo mock the hounds,
Replying thrilly to the well-tun'd horns,

As if a double hunt were heard at once.
Then, let us fink into a golden flumber;

Whilft hounds and horns, and sweet melodious birds,
Be unto us as is a nurfe's fong

Of lullaby, to bring her babe afleep.

WISH'D morning's come! And, now, upon the plains
And diftant mountains, where they feed their flocks,
The happy fhepherds leave their homely huts,
And, with their pipes, proclaim the new-born day.
The chearful birds too, on the tops of trees,
Affemble all in choirs, and, with their notes,
Salute and welcome up the rifing fun.


'N Belmont is a lady richly left,

IN Rumont of a virtues. Sometime, from her eyes,

I did receive fair fpeechlefs meffages.

Her name is Portia ; nothing undervalu'd
To Cato's daughter, Brutus' Portia.

Nor is the wide world ignorant of her worth ;
For the four winds blow in renowned fuitors.
O, my Antonio! had I but means

To hold a rival place with one of them,
I have a mind presages me fuch thrift-
That I fhould, queftionlefs, be fortunate.


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