Thus I sprinkle on thy breast
Drops, that from my fountain pure
I have kept, of precious cure;
Thrice upon thy finger's tip,

Thrice upon thy rubied lip;
Next this marble venomed seat,

Smeared with gums of glutinous heat,

I touch with chaste palms moist and cold;
Now the spell hath lost his hold;

And I must haste, ere morning hour,

To wait in Amphitrite's bower.

(Sabrina descends, and the Lady rises out of her seat.)

WHAT WONDROUS LIFE IS THIS I LEAD?

From THOUGHTS IN A GARDEN

ANDREW MARVELL

'HAT wondrous life is this I lead?

W

Ripe apples drop about my head;
The luscious clusters of the vine
Upon my mouth do crush their wine;
The nectarine and curious peach
Into my hands themselves do reach;
Stumbling on melons, as I pass,
Ensnared with flowers, I fall on grass.

Here at the fountain's sliding foot
Or at some fruit tree's mossy root,
Casting the body's vest aside,
My soul into the boughs does glide;
There, like a bird, it sits and sings,
Then whets and claps its silver wings,
And, till prepared for longer flight,
Waves in its plumes the various light.

THE TRUMPET'S LOUD CLANGOR

From A SONG FOR ST. CECILIA'S DAY

JOHN DRYDEN

THE trumpet's loud clangour

THE

Excites us to arms

With shrill notes of anger

And mortal alarms.

The double, double, double beat
Of the thundering drum

Cries, "Hark! the foes come;
Charge, charge, 'tis too late to retreat.”

The soft complaining flute

In dying notes discovers

The woes of hopeless lovers,

Whose dirge is whispered by the warbling lute.

But, oh! what art can teach,
What human voice can reach

The sacred organ's praise?

Notes inspiring holy love,

Notes that wing their heavenly ways

To mend the choirs above.

ODE ON SOLITUDE

ALEXANDER POPE

APPY the man whose wish and care

A few paternal acres bound,

Content to breathe his native air,

In his own ground.

Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread,
Whose flocks supply him with attire,
Whose trees in summer yield him shade,

In winter fire.

Blest, who can unconcernedly find
Hours, days, and years slide soft away,
In health of body, peace of mind,

Quiet by day,

Sound sleep by night; study and ease,
Together mixed; sweet recreation;
And innocence, which most does please,

With meditation.

Thus let me live, unseen, unknown,
Thus unlamented let me die,

Steal from the world, and not a stone

Tell where I lie.

MY PEGGY

From THE GENTLE SHEPHERD

ALLAN RAMSAY

Y Peggy is a young thing,
Just entered in her teens,
Fair as the day, and sweet as May,
Fair as the day, and always gay.
My Peggy is a young thing,
And I'm not very auld,

Yet well I like to meet her at
The wauking of the fauld.

My Peggy speaks sae sweetly,
Whene'er we meet alane,

I wish nae mair to lay my care,
I wish nae mair of all that's

rare,

My Peggy speaks sae sweetly,
To a' the lave I'm cauld;
But she gars a' my spirits glow
At wauking of the fauld.

My Peggy smiles sae kindly,
Whene'er I whisper love,

That I look down on a' the town,
That I look down upon a crown.