English

While some, in all the luxury of health,
The price of pleasure, and the pomp of wealth,
Inglorious, rous'd at passion's frantic call,
Soak o'er the bowl, or madden at the ball,
Triumph illiberal o'er the simple maid,
By love, or promise, to their arms betray'd;
Some painted trifle with anxiety chase,
Or wallow fulsome in the lewd embrace,
By foul debauch and worthless feats secure,
Remorse vindictive in the sober hour.
The grave associate of the good and sage,
Or nerv'd with youth, or silver'd o'er with age;

A Fragment.

I Sought repose from love's perplexing cares,
His groundless hopes, and still more groundless fears;
The luscious nights with Z ION'S monarch past,
In spite of ev'ry art grew stale at last,
I long'd in solitude to doze the day,
Nor languishingly dull, nor vainly gay;
Now in grave contemplation strive to scan
That charming, teazing, froward creature, man;
And now with dancing damsels plant a net
Before the unsuspecting monarch's feet;

( " O Charles, je te sens pres de moi. " )

I feel thy presence, Charles. Sweet martyr! down
In earth, where men decay,
I search, and see from cracks which rend thy tomb,
Burst out pale morning's ray.

Close linked are bier and cradle: here the dead,
To charm us, live again:
Kneeling, I mourn, when on my threshold sounds
Two little children's strain.

George, Jeanne, sing on! George, Jeanne, unconscious play!
Your father's form recall,

If I can guess the Devil choke me
What horrid fury could provoke thee
To use thy railing, scurrilous wit
Gainst prick and cunt, the source of it:
For what but prick and cunt does raise
Our thoughts to songs and roundelays,
Enables us to anagrams
And other amorous flim flams?
Then we write plays and so proceed
To bays, the poet's sacred weed.
Hast no respect for God Priapus?
That ancient story should not scape us:
Priapus was a Roman God,
(But in plain English, prick and cod)

Dreaming last night on Mrs. Farley,
My prick was up this morning early;
And I was fain without my gown
'To rise in the cold to get him down.
Hard shift, alas, but yet a sure,
Although it be no pleasing cure.
Of old the fair Egyptian slattern,
For luxury that had no pattern,
To fortify her Roman swinger,
Instead of nutmeg, mace and ginger,
Did spice his bowls (as story tells)
With warts of rocks and spawn of shells.
It had been happy for her Grace
Had I been in the rascal's place.
I who do scorn that any stone

In bowdoun, on blak monunday,
Quhen all was gadderit to the Play,
Bayth men and wemen semblit thair,
I hard ane sweit ane sich, and say
Wa worth maryage for evermair!

Madinis, ye may have grit plesance
For to do Venus observance,
Thoch I inclusit be with cair,
That I dar nother sing nor dance.
Wa worth maryage for evermair!

Quhen that I was ane madein ying,
Lichtlie wald I dance and sing,
And sport and play, bayth lait and air.
Now dar I nocht luik to sic thing.
Wa worth maryage for evermair!

Upon a barricade thrown 'cross the street
Where patriot's blood with felon's stains one's feet,
Ta'en with grown men, a lad aged twelve, or less!
“Were you among them—you?” He answered: “Yes.”
“Good,” said the officer, “when comes your turn,
You'll be shot too.”—The lad sees lightnings burn,—
Stretched 'neath the wall his comrades one by one:
Then says to the officer, “First let me run
And take this watch home to my mother, sir?”
“You want to escape?”—“No, I'll come back.”—“What fear

(“Owvrière sans yeux.”)

Toiler sans eyes, dull-brained Penelope,
 Cradler of chaos, powerless to create,
War, whom the clash of iron fires to glee,
 The furious blast of clarions makes elate,—
Quaffer of blood, foul hag that to thy feast
 Lur'st men and madden'st them with vile delight,—
Cloud, swollen with thunder North, South, West and East,
 Fulfilled with rage darker than darkest night,—
Vast Madness, that for swords keen lightnings wieldest,
 What is thy use, dire birth of hellish race,

Calme Seas least feared bee,
more daunger when they swell:
Yet in all Tydes we see,
they vse to sounde them well.

If thou wilte be rightfull,
Alwayes stande thou faythfull.
To doe well be carefull,
Note friends and be thankfull.
Vaine talke flye and learne wit,
Marke wise speeche and loue it.
Alwayes praye, and boast not,
Eschue pride, and vaunte not.
Hate no man, disdaine not,
Take time and sleepe not.
Eche vertue trayne iustly,
Regarde betters wisely.
Offend no wight wrongly,
And declare alwayes truely.
So God sure will loue thee,
And good men will praise thee.
When Vertue shall grace thee,