Chapter 391

When lovely woman stoops to folly, And finds too late that men betray, What charm can soothe her melancholy? What art can wash her guilt away? The only art her guilt to cover, To hide her shame from every eye, To give repentance to her lover, And wring his bosom, is--to die.

_Elegy on Mrs. Mary Blaise_.

The king himself has followed her When she has walked before.

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TOBIAS SMOLLETT. 1721-1771.

_Ode to Independence_.

Thy spirit, Independence, let me share; Lord of the lion heart and eagle eye, Thy steps I follow with my bosom bare, Nor heed the storm that howls along the sky.

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THOMAS PERCY. 1728-1811.

_Reliques of English Poetry. The Baffled Knight_.

He that wold not when he might, He shall not when he wolda.

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_The Friar of Orders Gray_.

Weep no more, lady, weep no more, Thy sorrow is in vain; For violets plucked the sweetest showers Will ne'er make grow again. Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more, Men were deceivers ever; One foot on sea, and one on shore, To one thing constant never.

_From Byrd's Psalmes, Sonets, &c_. 1588.

My mind to me a kingdom is; Such perfect joy therein I find, As far exceeds all earthly bliss That God and Nature hath assigned. Though much I want that most would have, Yet still my mind forbids to crave.

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BEILBY PORTEUS. 1731-1808.

_Death, a Poem_. Line 154.

One murder makes a villain, Millions a hero.

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JAMES BEATTIE. 1735-1766.

_The Minstrel_. Book i. St. 1.

Ah! who can tell how hard it is to climb The steep where Fame's proud temple shines afar?

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_The Hermit_. Line 8. He thought as a sage, but he felt as a man.

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_Epigram_. _The Bucks had dined_.

How hard their lot who neither won nor lost.

CHARLES CHURCHILL. 1741-1764.

_The Rosciad_. Line 861.

But spite of all the criticising elves, Those who would make us feel--must feel themselves.

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MRS. THEALE. 1740-1822.

_Three Warnings_.

The tree of deepest root is found Least willing still to quit the ground; 'Twas therefore said, by ancient sages, That love of life increased with years So much, that in our latter stages, When pains grow sharp, and sickness rages, The greatest love of life appears.

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WILLIAM COWPER. 1731-1800.

THE TASK.