Of fitting objects be not so inflamed.

How much, then, were this kingdom's main soul maimed

To want this great inflamer of all powers

That move in human souls! All realms but yours

Are honored with them, and hold blest that State

That have his works to read and contemplate,

In which humanity to her height is raised;

Which all the world, yet none enough hath praised.

Seas, earth, and heaven, he did in verse comprise,

Outsung the Muses, and did equalize

Their King Apollo; being so far from cause

Of princes' light thoughts, that their gravest laws

May find stuff to be fashioned by his lines.

Through all the pomp of kingdoms still he shines,

And graceth all his gracers. Then let lie

Your lutes and viols, and more loftily

Make the heroics of your Homer sung;

To drums and trumpets set his angel

An' raise a din;

For me, an aim I never fash! I rhyme for fun.

The star that rules my luckless lot,
Has fated me the russet coat,
An' damned my fortune to the groat;
But in requit,

'Has blessed me wi' a random shot

O' countra wit.

BURNS.

THE MUSE.

THE Muse doth tell me where to bor

row

Comfort in the midst of sorrow;
Makes the desolatest place
To her presence be a grace;
And the blackest discontents
Be her fairest ornaments.
In my former days of bliss,
Her divine skill taught me this,
That, from every thing I saw,
I could some invention draw;
And raise pleasure to her height,
Through the meanest object's sight.
By the murmur of a spring,
Or the least bough's rustling,
By a daisy, whose leaves spread,
Shut, when Titan goes to bed,
Or a shady bush, or tree,
She could more infuse in me,
Than all Nature's beauties can
In some other wiser man.
By her help, I also now
Make this churlish place allow
Some things that may sweeten glad-

GOD of science and of light,
Apollo through thy greate might,
This littell last booke now thou gie,*
Now that I will for maistrie,
Here art potenciall be shewde,
But for the rime is light and lewde,
Yet make it somewhat agreeable,
Though some verse fayle in a sillable,
And that I do no diligence,
To shewe craft, but sentence,
And if divine vertue thou
Wilt helpe me to shewe now,
That in my heed ymarked is,
Lo, that is for to meanen this,
The House of Fame for to discrive,—
Thou shalt see me go as blive t
Unto the next laurel I see
And kisse it, for it is thy tree,
Now enter in my brest anon.

CHAUCER.

yere

In Februere, upon saint Valentine's day.

And the river that I sate upon,
It made such a noise as it ran,
Accordaunt with the birdés har-
mony,

Methought it was the best melody
That might ben yheard of any mon.

And for delite, I wote never how
I fell in such a slomber and a swow,
Not all asleepe, ne fully waking,
And in that swow me thought I
heard sing

The sorry bird, the lewd cuckow.

And that was on a tree right fast by, But who was then evill apaid but I? "Now God" (quod I) that died on the crois

But nightingale so may they not done thee;

For thou hast many a nice queint cry, I have thee heard saine, ocy, ocy, How might I know what that should be?"

* Hence.