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O Griffith, sick to death: My legs, like loaden branches, bow to the earth, Willing to leave their burden: Reach a chair; So,-now, methinks, I feel a little ease. Didst thou not tell me, Griffith, as thou led'st me, That the great child of Honour, Cardinal Wolsey, Was dead?
Grif. Yes, Madam; but, I think, your grace, Out of the pain you suffered, gave no ear to it.
Kath. Pr’ythee, good Griffith, tell me how he died:
Alas! poor man!
s weary bones among ye;
Kath. So may he rest; his faults lie gently on him!
He would say untruths; and be ever double,
Yes, good Griffith;
Kath. After my death I wish no other herald,
Now in his ashes honour: Peace be with him! -
SONG OF THE ANGELS.
PARADISE LOST.-Book III.
Thee, Father, first they sung, omnipotent,
Fountain of light, thyself invisible Amidst the glorious brightness where thou sittest Throned inaccessible, but when thou shadest The full blaze of thy beams, and through a cloud Drawn round about thee like a radiant shrine, Dark with excessive bright thy skirts appear, Yet dazzle Heaven, that brightest seraphim Approach not, but with both wings veil their eyes. Thee next they sang, of all creation first, Begotten Son, divine similitude, In whose conspicuous countenance, without cloud Made visible, the Almighty Father shines, Whom else no creature can behold; on thee Impressed the effulgence of his glory bides, Transfused on thee his ample spirit rests. He, Heaven of Heavens, and all the powers therein, By thee created, and by thee threw down The aspiring dominations: thou that day Thy Father's dreadful thunder didst not spare, Nor stop thy flaming chariot wheels, that shook Heaven's everlasting frame, while o'er the necks Thou drov'st of warring angels disarrayed. Back from pursuit thy powers with loud acclaim Thee only extolled, Son of thy Father's might, To execute fierce vengeance on his foes. Not so on man; him, through their malice fallen, Father of mercy and grace, thou didst not doom So strictly, but much more to pity incline: No sooner did thy dear and only Son Perceive thee purposed not to doom frail man So strictly, but more to pity inclined, He, to appease thy wrath, and end the strife Of mercy and justice in thy face discerned, Regardless of the bliss wherein he sat Second to thee, offered himself to die For man's offence. O unexampled love, Love no where to be found less than divine! Hail, Son of God, Saviour of men! thy name Shall be the copious matter of my song, Henceforth, and never shall my harp thy praise Forget, nor from thy Father's praise disjoin.
EXTRACT FROM THE TASK.-BOOK II.
COWPER. In colleges and halls in ancient days, When learning, virtue, piety, and truth, Were precious, and inculcated with care, There dwelt a sage called Discipline. His head, Not yet by time completely silvered o'er, Bespoke him past the bounds of freakish youth, But strong for service still, and unimpaired. His eye was meek and gentle, and a smile Play'd on his lips, and in his speech was heard Paternal sweetness, dignity and love. The occupation dearest to his heart Was to encourage goodness. He would stroke The head of modest and ingenious worth, That blushed at its own praise; and press the youth Close to his side that pleased him. Learning grew Beneath his care a thriving vigorous plant; The mind was well informed, the passions held Subordinate, and diligence was choice. If e'er it chanced, as sometimes chance it must, That one among so many overleaped The limits of control, his gentle eye Grew stern, and darted a severe rebuke: His frown was full of terror, and his voice Shook the delinquent with such fits of awe, As left him not, till penitence had won Lost favour back again, and closed the breach. But Discipline, a faithful servant long, Declined at length into the vale of years: A palsy struck his arm; his sparkling eye Was 'quench'd in rheums of age; his voice, unstrung, Grew tremulous, and moved derision more Than rev’rence, in perverse rebellious youth. So colleges and halls neglected much Their good old friend; and Discipline at length, O'erlook'd and unemploy'd, fell sick and died. Then Study languish’d. Emulation slept, And Virtue fled. The schools became a scene Of solemn farce, where Ignorance in stilts, His cap well lined with logic not his own,