AS those we love decay, we die in part, String after string is sever'd from the heart; Till loosen'd life, at last but breathing clay, Without one pang is glad to fall away. Unhappy he who latest feels the blow! Whose eyes have wept o'er every friend laid low, Dragg'd ling'ring on from partial death to death, Till, dying, all he can resign is--breath. George Lyttelton, Lord Lyttelton. 1709-1773 449. Tell me, my Heart, if this be Love WHEN Delia on the plain appears, Awed by a thousand tender fears I would approach, but dare not move: Tell me, my heart, if this be love? Whene'er she speaks, my ravish'd ear No other voice than hers can hear, No other wit but hers approve: Tell me, my heart, if this be love? If she some other youth commend, Though I was once his fondest friend, His instant enemy I prove: Tell me, my heart, if this be love? When she is absent, I no more Delight in all that pleased before-- The clearest spring, or shadiest grove: Tell me, my heart, if this be love? When fond of power, of beauty vain, Her nets she spread for every swain, I strove to hate, but vainly strove: Tell me, my heart, if this be love? Samuel Johnson. 1709-1784 450. One-and-Twenty LONG-EXPECTED one-and-twenty, Ling'ring year, at length is flown: Pride and pleasure, pomp and plenty, Great * * * * * * *, are now your own. Loosen'd from the minor's tether, Free to mortgage or to sell, Wild as wind, and light as feather, Bid the sons of thrift farewell. Call the Betsies, Kates, and Jennies, All the names that banish care; Lavish of your grandsire's guineas, Show the spirit of an heir. All that prey on vice and folly Joy to see their quarry fly: There the gamester, light and jolly, There the lender, grave and sly. Wealth, my lad, was made to wander, Let it wander as it will; Call the jockey, call the pander, Bid them come and take their fill. When the bonny blade carouses, Pockets full, and spirits high-- What are acres? What are houses? Only dirt, or wet or dry. Should the guardian friend or mother Tell the woes of wilful waste, Scorn their counsel, scorn their pother;-- You can hang or drown at last! Samuel Johnson. 1709-1784 451. On the Death of Mr. Robert Levet, a Practiser in Physic CONDEMN'D to Hope's delusive mine, As on we toil from day to day, By sudden blasts or slow decline Our social comforts drop away. Well tried through many a varying year, See Levet to the grave descend, Officious, innocent, sincere, Of every friendless name the friend. Yet still he fills affection's eye, Obscurely wise and coarsely kind; Nor, letter'd Arrogance, deny Thy praise to merit unrefined. When fainting nature call'd for aid, And hov'ring death prepared the blow, His vig'rous remedy display'd The power of art without the show. In Misery's darkest cavern known, His useful care was ever nigh, Where hopeless Anguish pour'd his groan, And lonely Want retired to die.