It fortuned out of the thicket wood
A ramping lion rushed suddenly,

Hunting full greedy after savage blood;
Soon as the royal virgin he did spy,
With gaping mouth at her ran greedily,
To have at once devoured her tender corse :
But to the prey when as he drew more nigh,
His bloody rage assuaged with remorse,

And with the sight amazed, forgot his furious force.

Instead thereof he kiss'd her weary feet,

And lick'd her lily hands with fawning tongue ;
As he her wronged innocence did meet.

Oh how can beauty master the most strong,
And simple truth subdue avenging wrong!
Whose yielded pride and proud submission,
Still dreading death, when she had marked long,
Her heart did melt in great compassion ;
And drizzling tears did shed for pure affection.

Redounding tears did choke the end of her plaint,
Which softly echoed from the neighbour wood;
And, sad to see her sorrowful constraint,
The kingly beast upon her gazing stood :
With pity calm'd, down fell his angry mood.
At last, in close heart shutting up her pain,
Arose the virgin born of heavenly brood,
And to her snowy palfrey got again,

To seek her strayed champion if she might attain.

The lion would not leave her desolate,

But with her went along, as a strong guard

Of her chaste person, and a faithful mate

Of her sad troubles and misfortunes hard :

Still when she slept, he kept both watch and ward; And when she waked, he waited diligent, With humble service to her will prepared : From her fair eyes he took commandment, And ever by her looks conceived her intent.

ANGELS WATCHING OVER MANKIND.

AND is there care in heaven, and is there love
In heavenly spirits to these creatures base
That may compassion of their evils move?

There is else much more wretched were the case
Of men than beasts: But oh! the exceeding grace
Of highest God that loves his creatures so,
And all his works with mercy doth embrace;
That blessed angels he sends to and fro,
To serve to wicked man, to serve his wicked foe!
How oft do they their silver bowers leave,

To come to succour us that succour want! How oft do they with golden pinions cleave The flitting skies like flying pursuivant, Against foul fiends to aid us militant!

They for us fight; they watch and duly ward, And their bright squadrons round about us plant; And all for love and nothing for reward: Oh why should heavenly God to men have such regard!

THE SEASONS.

So forth issued the Seasons of the year:
First, lusty Spring, all dight in leaves of flowers
That freshly budded, and new blooms did bear,
In which a thousand birds had built their bowers,
That sweetly sung to call forth paramours;
And in his hand a javelin he did bear,

And on his head (as fit for warlike stoures)
A gilt engraven morion he did wear;

That as some did him love, so others did him fear.

Then came the jolly Summer, being dight
In a thin silken cassock coloured green,
That was unlined all, to be more light :
And on his head a garland well beseen

He wore, from which as he had chauffed1 been,
The sweat did drop; and in his hand he bore

1 Angered.

A bow and shafts, as he in forest green

Had hunted late the libbard1 or the boar,

And now would bathe his limbs with labour heated sore.

Then came the Autumn, all in yellow clad,

As though he joyed in his plenteous store,
Laden with fruits that made him laugh full glad
That he had banished hunger, which to-fore
Had by the belly oft him pinched sore.

Upon his head a wreath, that was enrolled
With ears of corn of every sort, he bore;
And in his hand a sickle he did hold,

To reap the ripened fruits the which the earth had yold.
Lastly came Winter, clothed all in frize,

Chattering his teeth for cold that did him chill;
Whilst on his hoary beard his breath did freeze,
And the dull drops, that from his purpled bill
As from a limbeck, did adown distil.
In his right hand a tipped staff he held,
With which his feeble steps he stayed still;
For he was faint with cold, and weak with eld,
That scarce his loosed limbs he able was to weld.

SHAKSPERE.

SHAKSPERE was born at Stratford-upon-Avon in 1564, and died in 1616. He wrote numerous dramas, both tragic and comic. His sonnets also are among the finest compositions in our language. In the words of Hallam we may say, "The name of Shakspere is the greatest in our literature-it is the greatest in all literature. No man ever came near him in the creative powers of the mind; no man ever had such strength at once and such variety of imagination."

COMBAT OF HOTSPUR AND HENRY PRINCE OF WALES.
("King Henry IV.," Part 1, Act 5.)

Enter HOTSPUR.

Hot. IF I mistake not, thou art Harry Monmouth.
Pr. Hen. Thou speak'st as if I would deny my name.
Hot. My name is Harry Percy.

1 Leopard.

Pr. Hen.

A very valiant rebel of the name.

Why then, I see

I am the Prince of Wales, and think not, Percy,
To share with me in glory any more.

Two stars keep not their motion in one sphere;
Nor can one England brook a double reign,
Of Harry Percy and the Prince of Wales.

Hot. Nor shall it, Harry, for the hour is come
To end the one of us. And would to God

Thy name in arms were now as great as mine!

Pr. Hen. I'll make it greater ere I part from thee; And all the budding honours on thy crest

I'll crop to make a garland for my head.

Hot. I can no longer brook thy vanities.

HOTSPUR is wounded and falls.

Hot. O Harry! thou hast robb'd me of my youth :

I better brook the loss of brittle life,

Than those proud titles thou hast won of me.

[They fight.

They wound my thoughts worse than thy sword my flesh :

But thought's the slave of life, and life time's fool;

And time, that takes survey of all the world,

Must have a stop. Oh! I could prophesy,

But that the earthy and cold hand of death
Lies on my tongue. No, Percy, thou art dust,

And food for

[Dies.

Pr. Hen. For worms, brave Percy: Fare thee well, great heart! Ill-weaved ambition, how much art thou shrunk !

When that this body did contain a spirit,

A kingdom for it was too small a bound;
But now, two paces of the vilest earth

Is room enough. This earth, that bears thee dead,
Bears not alive so stout a gentleman.

If thou wert sensible of courtesy,

I should not make so dear a show of zeal :
But let my favours hide thy mangled face!
And, even in thy behalf, I'll thank myself
For doing these fair rites of tenderness.

Adieu, and take thy praise with thee to heaven !
Thy ignominy sleep with thee in the grave,
But not remembered in thy epitaph !

MUSIC. ("Merchant of Venice," Act 5.)

Lor. How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank!
Here will we sit, and let the sounds of music

Creep in our ears; soft stillness, and the night
Become the touches of sweet harmony.

Sit, Jessica look how the floor of heaven
Is thick inlaid with patines1 of bright gold.
There's not the smallest orb, which thou behold'st,
But in his motion like an angel sings,
Still choiring to the young-eyed cherubims :
Such harmony is in immortal souls!
But whilst this muddy vesture of decay
Doth grossly close it in, we cannot hear it.

Come, ho, and wake Diana with a hymn ;
With sweetest touches pierce your mistress' ear,
And draw her home with music.

[Enter Musicians.

Jes. I'm never merry, when I hear sweet music.
Lor. The reason is, your spirits are attentive :
For do but note a wild and wanton herd,
Or race of youthful and unhandled colts,
Fetching mad bounds, bellowing and neighing loud,
Which is the hot condition of their blood,
If they but hear perchance a trumpet sound,
Or any air of music touch their ears,

You shall perceive them make a mutual stand;
Their savage eyes turned to a modest gaze,

By the sweet power of music. Therefore the poet
Did feign that Orpheus drew trees, stones, and floods ;
Since nought so stockish, hard, and full of rage,
But music for the time doth change his nature.
The man that hath no music in himself,
Nor is not moved with concord of sweet sounds,
Is fit for treasons, stratagems, and spoils;
The motions of his spirit are dull as night,
And his affections dark as Erebus :

Let no such man be trusted-Mark the music.

1 A patine is a small flat plate.

[Music.