And if you find it wondrous short,-- It cannot hold you long. ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A MAD DOG |In Islington there was a man, Of whom the world might say, That still a godly race he ran,-- Whene'er he went to pray. [Illustration: 9030] A kind and gentle heart he had, To comfort friends and foes; The naked every day he clad,-- When he put on his clothes. And in that town a dog was found, As many dogs there be, Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound, And curs of low degree. This dog and man at first were friends; But when a pique began, The dog, to gain some private ends, Went mad, and bit the man. Around from all the neighbouring streets The wondering neighbours ran, And swore the dog had lost his wits, To bite so good a man. The wound it seemed both sore and sad To every Christian eye; And while they swore the dog was mad, They swore the man would die. But soon a wonder came to light, That showed the rogues they lied; The man recovered of the bite, The dog it was that died. ----O. Goldsmith. THE FRIAR OF ORDERS GRAY |It was a friar of orders gray Walkt forth to tell his beades; And he met with a lady faire Clad in a pilgrime's weedes. "Now Christ thee save, thou reverend friar, I pray thee tell to me, If ever at yon holy shrine My true love thou didst see," "And how should I know your true love From many another one?" "O, by his cockle hat, and staff, And by his sandal shoone. "But chiefly by his face and mien, That were so fair to view; His flaxen locks that sweetly curl'd, And eyne of lovely blue." "O lady, he is dead and gone! Lady, he's dead and gone! And at his head a green grass turfe, And at his heels a stone. "Within these holy cloysters long He languisht, and he dyed, Lamenting of a ladyes love, And playing of her pride. "Here bore him barefac'd on his bier Six proper youths and tall, And many a tear bedew'd his grave Within yon kirk-yard wall." "And art thou dead, thou gentle youth! And art thou dead and gone! And didst thou die for love of me! Break, cruel heart of stone!" "O weep not, lady, weep not soe: Some ghostly comfort seek: Let not vain sorrow rive thy heart, Ne teares bedew thy cheek." "O do not, do not, holy friar, My sorrow now reprove; For I have lost the sweetest youth, That e'er wan ladyes love. "And nowe, alas! for thy sad losse, I'll evermore weep and sigh: For thee I only wisht to live, For thee I wish to dye." "Weep no more, lady, weep no more, Thy sorrowe is in vaine: For violets pluckt the sweetest showers Will ne'er make grow againe. "Our joys as winged dreams doe flye, Why then should sorrow last? Since grief but aggravates thy losse, Grieve not for what is past."