SEVENTH YEAR-FIRST HALF

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

ENGLAND, 1564-1616

Good name in man and woman, dear my lord,

Is the immediate jewel of their souls:

Who steals my purse steals trash; 'tis something, nothing;

'Twas mine, 'tis his, and has been slave to thousands; But he that filches from me my good name

Robs me of that which not enriches him

And makes me poor indeed.

—“OTHELLO," Act II, Sc. 3.

When daisies pied and violets blue,
And lady-smocks all silver-white,
And cuckoo-buds of yellow hue

Do paint the meadows with delight.

"LOVE'S LABOR'S LOST," Act V, Sc. 2.

This royal throne of kings, this scepter'd isle,
This earth of majesty, this seat of Mars,

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This other Eden, demi-paradise;

This fortress built by Nature for herself
Against infection and the hand of war;
This happy breed of men, this little world,
5 This precious stone set in the silver sea,
Which serves it in the office of a wall,
Or as a moat defensive to a house,
Against the envy of less happier lands;

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This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England.

"RICHARD II," Act II, Sc. 1.

Jog on, jog on, the foot-path way,
And merrily hent the stile-a:
A merry heart goes all the day,

Your sad tires in a mile-a.

- From "WINTER'S TALE."

The Downfall of Wolsey

Farewell! a long farewell, to all my greatness! 15 This is the state of man: to-day he puts forth The tender leaves of hopes; to-morrow blossoms, And bears his blushing honors thick upon him; The third day comes a frost, a killing frost; And, when he thinks, good easy man, full surely 20 His greatness is a ripening, nips his root,

And then he falls, as I do. I have ventured,
Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders,
This many summers in a sea of glory,

But far beyond my depth: my high-blown pride
At length broke under me; and now has left me,
Weary and old with service, to the mercy

Of a rude stream, that must forever hide me.
Vain pomp and glory of this world, I hate ye:
I feel my heart new opened. O, how wretched
Is that poor man that hangs on princes' favors!
There is, betwixt that smile we would aspire to,
That sweet aspect of princes, and their ruin,
More pangs and fears than wars or women have:
And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer,

Never to hope again.

- From "HENRY VIII.”

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BEN JONSON

ENGLAND, 1574-1637

The Noble Nature

It is not growing like a tree

In bulk doth make man better be;

Or standing long an oak, three hundred year,
To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sere;

A lily of a day

Is fairer far in May,

Although it fall and die that night,

It was the plant and flower of Light.
In small proportions we just beauties see,
And in short measures life may perfect be.

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JOHN MILTON

ENGLAND, 1608-1674

Song on a May Morning

Now the bright morning star, day's harbinger,
Comes dancing from the east, and leads with her
The flowery May, who from her green lap throws
The yellow cowslip and the pale primrose.

Hail, bounteous May, that dost inspire
Mirth and youth and warm desire!
Woods and groves are of thy dressing,
Hill and dale doth boast thy blessing.
Thus we salute thee with our early song,
And welcome thee, and wish thee long.

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ISAAC WATTS

ENGLAND, 1674-1748

O God, our help in ages past,

Our hope for years to come,
Our shelter from the stormy blast,
And our eternal home:

Before the hills in order stood,
Or earth received her frame,
From everlasting Thou art God,
To endless years the same.