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Make wide the entrance of your thirsty soil, New spirits must i' th' mighty harvest toil; Charon's too narrow boat can ne're convey, Scarce a whole fleet will waft the souls away; Pale furies be with the vast ruin crown'd, And fill'd with blood, remangle every wound. The universal fabrick of the world, Rent and divided, to your empire's hurl'd.
"Alas, my Enothea!" said she, "this youth was born under an ill star; for neither boy nor maid can raise him to a perfect appetite; you ne're beheld a more unhappy man: In his garden the weak willow, not the lusty cedar grows; in short, you may guess what he is, that cou'd rise unblest from Circe's bed."
Praise her who list, yet he shall be a debtor For Art ne're feigned, nor Nature fram'd a better. Her virtues were so great, that they do raise A work to trouble fame, astonish praise. When as her Name doth but salute the ear, Men think that they perfections abstract hear.
And ne'er a bone broke, ne're a scrat on her body a pin could mak'. As healthy as a mon and yet dead as mutton!" *N.B. Stout Hearty. Jim, still trembling from the horror of his fear, came up, and knelt beside his friend. "Ah, but there's bin devilry in this!" he said; "I reck'ned they sheep had bin badly skeared, and not so long agone." "Sheep-murder, sure enough!" the other answered.
Thy cloaths ne're wear, thy meat is everywhere, Thy bed a bough, thy drink the water deer, Reminds not what is past nor whats to come dost fear.
For this alone and for no other cause, Against his Sovereign, or against his Laws, He on the Rack his Limbs in pieces rent, Thus was he tortur'd till his life was spent Of this unkingly act doth Seneca This censure pass, and not unwisely say, Of Alexander this the eternal crime, Which shall not be obliterate by time. Which virtue's fame can ne're redeem by far, Nor all felicity of his in war.
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