No More Learning

NOT EVERY DAY FIT FOR VERSE.

'Tis not ev'ry day that I
Fitted am to prophesy;
No; but when the spirit fills
The fantastic pannicles
Full of fire, then I write
As the godhead doth indite.
Thus enrag'd, my lines are hurled,
Like the Sybil's, through the world.
Look how next the holy fire
Either slakes, or doth retire;
So the fancy cools, till when
That brave spirit comes again.

_Fantastic pannicles_, brain cells of the imagination.
_Sybil's_, the oracles of the Cumaean Sybil were written on leaves,
which the wind blew about her cave. --Virg. AEn. iv.


715. POVERTY THE GREATEST PACK.

To mortal men great loads allotted be,
_But of all packs, no pack like poverty_.


716. A BUCOLIC, OR DISCOURSE OF NEATHERDS.

1.
Come, blitheful neatherds, let us lay
A wager who the best shall play,
Of thee or I, the roundelay
That fits the business of the day.

_Chor. _ And Lalage the judge shall be,
To give the prize to thee, or me.

2. Content, begin, and I will bet
A heifer smooth, and black as jet,
In every part alike complete,
And wanton as a kid as yet.

_Chor. _ And Lalage, with cow-like eyes,
Shall be disposeress of the prize.

1. Against thy heifer, I will here
Lay to thy stake a lusty steer
With gilded horns, and burnish'd clear.

_Chor. _ Why, then, begin, and let us hear
The soft, the sweet, the mellow note
That gently purls from either's oat.

2. The stakes are laid: let's now apply
Each one to make his melody.

_Lal. _ The equal umpire shall be I,
Who'll hear, and so judge righteously.

_Chor.