English

As Thomas was cudgell'd one day by his wife,
He took to the street, and fled for his life;
Tom's three dearest friends came by in the squabble,
And sav'd him at once from the shrew and the rabble;
Then ventur'd to give him some sober advice--
But, Tom is a person of honour so nice,
Too wise to take counsel, too proud to take warning,
That he sent to all three a challenge next morning:
Three duels he fought, thrice ventur'd his life;
Went home, and was cudgell'd again by his wife.

As clever Tom Clinch, while the rabble was bawling,
Rode stately through Holborn, to die in his calling;
He stopt at the George for a bottle of sack,
And promis'd to pay for it when he'd come back.
His waistcoat and stockings, and breeches were white,
His cap had a new cherry ribbon to tie't.
The maids to the doors and the balconies ran,
And said, lack-a-day! he's a proper young man.
But, as from the windows the ladies he spied,
Like a beau in the box, he bow'd low on each side;
And when his last speech the loud hawkers did cry,

PROLOGUE

A S , when a tree 's cut down, the secret root
Lives under ground, and thence new branches shoot;
So from old Shakespeare's honor'd dust, this day
Springs up and buds a new reviving play:
Shakespeare, who (taught by none) did first impart
To Fletcher wit, to laboring Jonson art.
He, monarch-like, gave those, his subjects, law;
And is that nature which they paint and draw.
Fletcher reach'd that which on his heights did grow,
Whilst Jonson crept, and gather'd all below.
This did his love, and this his mirth digest;

As I sunk the lobster-pots,
To myself I thought,
Luck's the cunning lobster
I have never caught.

Though I've fished for fifty year,
Man and boy, for me
Luck's the fish I've never
Drawn from the salt sea.

And good fortune, likely now,
Won't be mine to keep,
Till I go to seek it
Fifty fathom deep.

As beneath the moon I walked,
Dog-at-heel my shadow stalked,
Keeping ghostly company:
And as we went gallantly
Down the fell-road, dusty-white,
Round us in the windy night
Bracken, rushes, bent and heather
Whispered ceaselessly together:
" Would he ever journey more,
Ever stride so carelessly,
If he knew what lies before,
And could see what we can see? "

As I listened, cold with dread,
Every hair upon my head
Strained to hear them talk of me,
Whispering, whispering ceaselessly:

(A DAPTED FROM THE POET Y AKURA S ANJIN , 1769)

As I wandered through the eight hundred and eight streets of the city,
I saw nothing so beautiful
As the Women of the Green Houses,
With their girdles of spun gold,
And their long-sleeved dresses,
Coloured like the graining of wood.
As they walk,
The hems of their outer garments flutter open,
And the blood-red linings glow like sharp-toothed maple leaves
In Autumn.

Ask nothing more of me, sweet;
—All I can give you I give.
——Heart of my heart, were it more,
More would be laid at your feet:
—Love that should help you to live,
——Song that should spur you to soar.

All things were nothing to give
—Once to have sense of you more,
——Touch you and taste of you, sweet,
Think you and breathe you and live,
—Swept of your wings as they soar,
——Trodden by chance of your feet.

I that have love and no more
—Give you but love of you, sweet:

At such a time, of year and day,
In ages gone, that steep hill-brow
Cast down an evening shade, that lay
In shape the same as lies there now;
Though then no shadows wheel'd around
The things that now are on the ground.

The hill's high shape may long outstand
The house, of slowly-wasting stone;
The house may longer shade the land
Than man's on-gliding shade is shown;
The man himself may longer stay
Than stands the summer's rick of hay.

The trees that rise, with boughs o'er boughs,

James T. FIELDS

As a guest who may not stay
Long and sad farewells to say
Glides with smiling face away,

Of the sweetness and the zest
Of thy happy life possessed
Thou hast left us at thy best.

Warm of heart and clear of brain,
Of thy sun-bright spirit's wane
Thou hast spared us all the pain.

Now that thou hast gone away,
What is left of one to say
Who was open as the day?

What is there to gloss or shun?
Save with kindly voices none
Speak thy name beneath the sun.

It was on one Monday morning just about one o'clock
When that great Titanic began to reel and rock;
People began to scream and cry,
Saying, " Lord, am I going to die? "
It was sad when that great ship went down,
It was sad when that great ship went down,
Husbands and wives and little children lost their lives,
It was sad when that great ship went down.

When that ship left England it was making for the shore,
The rich had declared that they would not ride with the poor,
So they put the poor below,