say to thee that I shall die, is true; but for thy love, by the Lord, no; yet I love thee, too. And, while thou liv'st, dear Kate, take a fellow of plain and uncoined constancy, for he perforce must do thee right, because he hath not the gift to woo in other places; for these fellows of infinite tongue, that can rhyme themselves into ladies' favors, they do always reason themselves out again. What! a speaker is but a prater; a rhyme is but a ballad. A good leg will fall, a straight back will stoop, a black beard will turn white, a curled pate will grow bald, a fair face will wither, a full eye will wax hollow; but a good heart, Kate, is the sun and the moon; or, rather, the sun, and not the moon, for it shines bright, and never changes, but keeps his course truly. If thou would have such a one, take me: and take me, take a soldier; take a soldier, take a king; and what say'st thou then to my love? speak, my fair, and fairly, I pray thee.

Kath. Is it possible dat I should love de enemy of France?

K. Hen. No; it is not possible you should love the enemy of France, Kate; but in loving me, you should love the friend of France, for I love France so well that I will not part with a village of it; I will have it all mine; and, Kate, when France is mine and I am yours, then yours is France and you are mine.

Kath. I cannot tell vat is dat.

K. Hen. No, Kate? I will tell thee in French, which I am sure will hang upon my tongue like a new-married wife about her husband's neck, hardly to be shook off. Quand j'ay la possession de France, et quand vous avez le possession de moy (let me see, what then? Saint Denis be my speed!)— donc vostre est France et vous estes mienne. It is as easy for me, Kate, to conquer the Kingdom, as to speak so much more French. I shall never move thee in French, unless it be to laugh at me.

Kath. Sauf vostre Honneur, le François que vous parlez est meilleur que l' Anglois lequel je parle.

K. Hen. No, faith, is 't not, Kate; but thy speaking of my tongue, and I thine, most truly falsely, must needs be granted to be much at one. But, Kate, dost thou underCanst thou love me?

stand thus much English?

Kath. I cannot tell.

K. Hen. Can any of your neighbors tell, Kate? I'll ask them. Come, I know thou lovest me, and at night, when

you come into your closet, you'll question this gentlewoman about me; and I know, Kate, you will to her, dispraise those parts in me that you love with your heart; but, good Kate, mock me mercifully, the rather, gentle Princess, because I love thee cruelly. If ever thou be'st mine, Kate (as I have a saving faith within me tells thou shalt), I get thee with scambling. But what say'st thou, my fair flower-de-luce? Kath. I do not know dat.

K. Hen. No; 'tis hereafter to know, but now to promise. How answer you, la plus belle Katherine du monde, mon très chère et divin déese?

Kath. Your Majesté have fausse French enough to deceive de most sage damoiselle dat is en France.

K. Hen. Now, fie upon my false French! By mine honor, in true English, I love thee, Kate: by which honor I dare not swear thou lovest me; yet my blood begins to flatter me thou dost, notwithstanding the poor and untempering effect of my visage. I was created with a stubborn outside, with an aspect of iron, that, when I come to woo ladies, I fright them. But, in faith, Kate, the elder I wax, the better I shall appear: my comfort is, that old age, that ill layer-up of beauty, can do no more spoil upon my face; thou hast me, if thou hast me, at the worst; and thou shalt wear me, if thou wear me, better and better. And therefore tell me, most fair Katherine, will you have me? Put off your maiden blushes; avouch the thoughts of your heart with the looks of an empress; take me by the hand and say-Harry of England, I am thine: which word thou shalt no sooner bless my ear withal, but I will tell thee aloud-England is thine, Ireland is thine, France is thine, and Henry Plantagenet is thine. Who, though I speak it before his face, if he be not fellow with the best King, thou shalt find the best king of good fellows. Come, your answer in broken music, for thy voice is music, and thy English broken; therefore, Queen of all Katherines, break thy mind to me in broken English: wilt thou have me?

Kath. Dat is as it shall please de Roy mon père.

K. Hen. Nay it will please him well, Kate: it shall please him, Kate.

Kath. Den it shall also content me.

K. Hen. Upon that I kiss your hand, and I call youmy queen.

William Shakespeare.

But so modest was Mistress Malone 'T was known! That no one could see her alone,

Put his arm round her waist,—

Gave ten kisses at laste,

"O," says he, "you 're my Molly Malone,

My own!"

"O," says he, "you 're my Molly Malone".

And the widow they all thought so shy,

My eye!

Ne'er thought of a simper or sigh,

For why?

But, "Lucius," says she,

"Since you've now made so free, You may marry your Mary Malone, Ohone!

You may marry your Mary Malone."

There's a moral contained in my song,
Not wrong;

And one comfort, it's not very long,

If for widows you die,

But strong.

Learn to kiss, not to sigh;

For they're all like sweet Mistress Malone,

Ohone!

O they're all like sweet Mistress Malone.

Charles Lever.

THE BALLAD OF THE OYSTERMAN.

It was a tall young oysterman lived by the river-side,
His shop was just upon the bank, his boat was on the tide;
The daughter of a fisherman, that was so straight and slim,
Lived over on the other bank, right opposite to him.

It was the pensive oysterman that saw a lovely maid,
Upon a moonlight evening, a-sitting in the shade;
He saw her wave her handkerchief, as much as if to say,
"I'm wide awake, young oysterman, and all the folks away."

Then up arose the oysterman and to himself said he:

"I guess I'll leave the skiff at home, for fear that folks should see;

I read it in the story-book, that, for to kiss his dear, Leander swam the Hellespont, and I will swim this here."

And he has leaped into the waves, and crossed the shining stream,

And he has clambered up the bank, all in the moonlight

gleam;

O there were kisses sweet as dew, and words as soft as rain,But they have heard her father's step, and in he leaps again!

Out spoke the ancient fisherman,-"O what was that, my daughter?"

"'Twas nothing but a pebble, sir, I threw into the water." "And what is that, pray tell me, love, that paddles off so fast?"

"It's nothing but a porpoise, sir, that's been a-swimming past."

Out spoke the ancient fisherman,-" Now bring me my harpoon!

I'll get into my fishing-boat, and fix the fellow soon."

Down fell that pretty innocent, as falls a snow-white lamb, Her hair drooped round her pallid cheeks, like sea-weed on a clam.

Alas for those two loving ones! she waked not from her swound,

And he was taken with the cramp, and in the waves was

drowned;

But Fate has metamorphosed them, in pity of their woe,
And now they keep an oyster-shop for mermaids down
below.
Oliver Wendell Holmes.

THE LOW-BACKED CAR.

When first I saw sweet Peggy,
'Twas on a market day:

A low-backed car she drove, and sat
Upon a truss of hay;

But when that hay was blooming grass,
And decked with flowers of spring,
No flower was there that could compare
With the blooming girl I sing.