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What if her eyes were there, they in her head ?
The brightness of her cheek would shame those stars,
As daylight doth a lamp; her eye

in heaven
Would through the airy region stream so bright,
That birds would sing, and think it were not night.
See how she leans her cheek upon her hand!
Oh, that I were a glove upon that hand,
That I might touch that cheek!
Jul.

Ah me! Rom.

She speaks; — Oh, speak again, bright angel! for thou art As glorious to this night, being o'er my head, As is a winged messenger of heaven Unto the white-upturnèd wondering eyes Of mortals, that fall back to gaze on him, When he bestrides the lazy-pacing clouds, And sails upon the bosom of the air.

Jul. O Romeo, Romeo! wherefore art thou Romeo ? Deny thy father, and refuse thy name: Or if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love, And I'll no longer be a Capulet.

ει δ' ήν εκεί μέν όμματ, έν δ' αυτής κάρα
άστρω μετοικισθέντε, προς παρηΐδα
μαυροίτ' άν άστρα, λαμπας ως παρ' ήλιον,
μετάρσιός τ' οφθαλμός ουρανού διά
πέμποι σέλας τηλαυγές, ορνίθων μέλη
εφα κινών, ως σκότου πεφευγότος.
ίδ' ως παρειαν εις χέρ' αγκλίνασέχει
είθ' ήν εκείνης δεξιάς χειρίς εγώ,
όπως εκείνης ήπτόμην παρηίδος,

ΙΟΥΛ. ώ

μοι

ΡΩΜ. έφθέγξατ'· ώ φθέγξαιο, φαιδιμή, πάλιν

υπερθε γάρ μου τήσδ' άγαλμα νυκτός εί,
ως ευτε θνητοίς ήλθεν άγγελος θεού,
οι δ' έκπλαγέντες υπτιάζουσιν κόρας,
κάς τουπίσω κλίνουσιν ώστε προσβλέπεις
νεφελών έφιππεύοντα των βραδυστόλων,

πτεροίσι ναυστολούντα κόλπον αιθέρος. ΙΟΥΛ. ώ Ρωμεών, τί δήτα Ρωμεων έφυς ;

πατέρα τ' αναίνου κώνομ'· ει δε μη θέλεις,
όμνυ φιλήτωρ τήσδε πιστός εμμενείν,
κάγώ δόμων τε και γένους εξίσταμαι.

SONG, BY MOORE.

Fond soother of my infant tear,

Fond sharer of my infant joy, Doth not thy shade still linger here?

Am I not still thy soul's employ ? And oh, as when at close of day

Our virgins climb'd the sacred mount, And harping sang their choral lay

And danced around Cassotis' fount; As then 'twas all thy wish and care

That mine should be the simplest mien, My voice and lyre the sweetest there,

My step the lightest on the green; So now, each line of grace to mould, Around

my form thine eyes are shed, Arranging every snowy fold,

And guiding every mazy tread. And when I lead the hymning choir,

Thy spirit still unseen and free Hovers between my lip and lyre,

And weds them into harmony.

THE SAME TRANSLATED.

O mihi quæ teneros mulcebas anxia fletus,

Quæ teneri risûs læta sodalis eras, Non umbram hic, dilecta, tuam juvat usque morari ?

Non animæ tibi sum cura superstes ego ? Nam memini, quoties sacri ad fastigia clivi

Sera puellarem duceret hora chorum,
Margine saltarent illæ Cassotidis undæ,

Et canerent socios voce lyrâque modos,
Hoc tibi erat curæ, summa hæc et sola voluntas,

Simplicior vestis ne foret ulla meâ,
Ne qua lyrâ nec voce canens me suavius illic,

Ne levior molli planta volaret humo.
Nunc etiam, ut veneres fingant mihi quasque decenter,
Lumina

per

formam sunt tua fusa meam, Quemque mihi celeris passûs rectura meatum,

Quemque mihi niveum compositura sinum.
Et tuus in sacro qui me duce tollitur hymno

Spiritus aerii numinis instar adest,
Et citharam medius volitans interque labellum

Suave melos junctis elicit e numeris.

FROM HENRY VIII.

Griffith.

"This cardinal, Though from an humble stock, undoubtedly Was fashion'd to much honour. From his cradle He was a scholar, and a ripe and good one; Exceeding wise, fair spoken, and persuading : Lofty and sour to them that loved him not; But to those men that sought him, sweet as summer. And though he were unsatisfied in getting, (Which was a sin,) yet in bestowing, madam, He was most princely: ever witness for him Those twins of learning, that he raised in you, Ipswich, and Oxford ! one of which fell with him, Unwilling to outlive the good that did it; The other, though unfinish’d, yet so famous, So excellent in art, and still so rising, That Christendom shall ever speak his virtue. His overthrow heap'd happiness upon him ; For then, and not till then, he felt himself,

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