Cel. Pronounce that sentence then on me, my liege; I cannot live out of her company.

Duke F. You are a fool.-You, niece, provide yourself;

If you out-stay the time, upon mine honour,
And in the greatness of my word, you die.

go ?

Cel. O my poor Rosalind! whither wilt thou
Wilt thou change fathers? I will give thee mine.
I charge thee, be not thou more grieved than I am.
Ros. I have more cause.

Cel. Thou hast not, cousin,

Pry'thee, be cheerful: know'st thou not, the duke
Hath banish'd me, his daughter?

Ros. That he hath not.

Cel. No hath not? Rosalind lacks then the love
Which teacheth thee that thou and I am one:
Shall we be sunder'd? shall we part, sweet girl?
No; let my father seek another heir.

Therefore devise with me, how we may fly,
Whither to go, and what to bear with us:
And do not seek to take your change upon you,
To bear your griefs yourself, and leave me out;
For, by this heaven, now at our sorrows pale,
Say what thou canst, I'll go along with thee.
Ros. Why, whither shall we go?

Cel. To seek my uncle.

Ros. Alas, what danger will it be to us,
Maids as we are, to travel forth so far?
Beauty provoketh thieves sooner than gold.
Cel. I'll put myself in poor and mean attire,
And with a kind of umber smirch my face;
The like do you; so shall we pass along,
And never stir assailants.

Ros. Were it not better,

Because that I am more than common tall,
That I did suit me all points like a man?
A boar-spear in my hand; and (in my heart
Lie there what hidden woman's fear there will)

We'll have a swashing and a martial outside;
As many other mannish cowards have,

That do outface it with their semblances.

Cel. What shall I call thee, when thou art a man? Ros. I'll have no worse a name than Jove's own page, And therefore look you call me, Ganymede. But what will you be called?

Cel. Something that hath a reference to my state ; No longer Celia, but Aliena.

Ros. But, cousin, what if we assay'd to steal
The clownish fool out of your father's court?
Would he not be a comfort to our travel?

Cel. He'll go along o'er the wide world with me
Leave me alone to woo him: Let's away,
And get our jewels and our wealth together;
Devise the fittest time, and safest way

To hide us from pursuit, that will be made
After my flight: Now go we in content
To liberty, and not to banishment.-SHAKESPEARE.

ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY
CHURCHYARD.

[THOMAS GRAY, born 26th December, 1716, became Professor of Modern History at Cambridge in 1768. His life was uneventful. He died 30th July, 1771.]

1. THE curfew tolls the knell of parting day,
The lowing herds wind slowly o'er the lea,
The ploughman homeward plods his weary way,
And leaves the world to darkness and to me.
2. Now fades the glimm'ring landscape on the sight,
And all the air a solemn stillness holds,
Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds;
3. Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower,
The moping owl does to the moon complain
Of such, as wand'ring near her secret bow'r,
Molest her ancient solitary reign.

4. Beneath those rugged elms, that yew tree's shade, Where heaves the turf in many a mould'ring heap,

Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,

The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.

5. The breezy call of incense-breathing Morn,

The swallow twitt'ring from the straw-built shed, The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn,

No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.

6. For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, Or busy housewife ply her ev'ning care: No children run to lisp their sire's return,

Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.

7. Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield,

Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke:
How jocund did they drive their team afield!
How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy
stroke!

8. Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,

Their homely joys, and destiny obscure ;
Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile
The short and simple annals of the poor.

9. The boast of Heraldry, the pomp of Pow'r,
And all that Beauty, all that Wealth e'er gave,
Await alike th' inevitable hour,

The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

10. Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault, If mem'ry o'er their tombs no trophies raise, Where through the long drawn aisle, and fretted vault,

The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.

11. Can storied urn, or animated bust,

Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath?

Can Honour's voice provoke the silent dust,
Or Flatt'ry soothe the dull cold ear of Death?

12. Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid

Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire;
Hands, that the rod of empire might have sway'd,
Or wak'd to ecstasy the living lyre.

13. But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page,
Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unroll;
Chill Penury repress'd their noble rage,
And froze the genial current of the soul.

14. Full many a gem of purest ray serene

The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear;
Full many a flow'r is born to blush unseen,
And waste its sweetness on the desert air.

15. Some village Hampden, that with dauntless breast
The little tyrant of his fields withstood;
Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest,
Some Cromwell guiltless of his country's blood.

16. Th' applause of list'ning senates to command,
The threat of pain and ruin to despise,
To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land,

And read their hist'ry in a nation's eyes,

17. Their lot forbade: nor circumscrib'd alone

Their growing virtues, but their crimes confin'd;
Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne,
And shut the gates of mercy on mankind;

18. The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide,
To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame,
Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride
With incense kindled at the Muse's flame.

19. Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife
Their sober wishes never learn'd to stray;

Along the cool sequester'd vale of life

They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.

20. Yet ev❜n these bones from insult to protect Some frail memorial still erected nigh,

With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck'd

Implores the pleasing tribute of a sigh.

21. Their names, their years, spelt by th' unletter'd Muse,

The place of fame and elegy supply;

And many a holy text around she strews,
That teach the rustic moralist to die.

22. For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey,

This pleasing anxious being e'er resign'd,
Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day,
Nor cast one longing, ling'ring look behind?

23. On some fond breast the parting soul relies,
Some pious drops the closing eye requires :
Ev'n from the tomb the voice of Nature cries,
Ev'n in our ashes live their wonted fires.

24. For thee, who, mindful of the unhonour'd dead, Dost in these lines their artless tale relate; If chance, by lonely Contemplation led,

Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate,

25. Haply some hoary-headed swain may say,

"Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn, Brushing with hasty steps the dew away,

To meet the sun upon the upland lawn.

26. "There at the foot of yonder nodding beech,
That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high,
His listless length at noontide would he stretch,
And pore upon the brook that babbles by.