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IMITATION BY MOLIERE. THERE is a passage in Shakspeare which every one remembers: by the bye, there are few passages in Shakspeare which we do not remember. But the particular passage to which I allude is the soliloquy of Falstaff, in the first scene of the fifth act of Henry IV. part I.“Honour pricks me on. Yea, but how if honour prick me off when I come on? How then? Can honour set a leg? No. Or an arm? No. Or take away the grief of a wound ? No. What is honour? A word,” &c. Moliere seems to have had his eye on this passage, when he wrote the seventeenth scene of his comedy of “ Sganarelle.” The resemblance, however, is but a general one, and may be merely accidental. “ Mais mon honneur me dit que d'une telle offense Il faut absolument que je prenne vengeance: Ma foi, laissons le dire autant qu'il lui plaira; Au diantre qui pourtant rien de tout en fera. Quand j'aurai fait le brave, et qu'un fer, pour ma peine, M'aura d'un vilain coup transpercé la bedaine, Que par le ville ira le bruit de mon trepas, Dites moi, mon honneur, en serez vous plus gras?” .
TIMELY RECOLLECTION. A FRIEND of mine called one morning on Sir ****** ******, a youth not celebrated for a superabundance of brains. 'He found him in the midst of numerous packages, and apparently just departing on a long journey. “Where the deuce are you going to?” exclaimed he. “I am just setting off for France and Italy,” replied the baronet. Having bidden the customary adieu to each other, they separated. A short time after, however, my friend met the baronet in the street. “ What! are you still here?” said he, “ I thought that you were going to France and Italy'; and I supposed that ere now you had travelled at least half way to Italy.” “Yes,” said Sir , “I did mean to go to the countries you mention ; but, just as I was going, I recollected that I knew nobody there."
REPLY TO A LADY, On her asking the cause of the Author's Melancholy at a
Public Garden, “ WHY, when all is gay around
Should the clouds of care be worn ? Why, where mirthful songs resound
Show the heart with anguish torn? 6. Arouse, arouse, shake off this gloom,
None wear the garb of sorrow here; Though the soul sicken with its doom
Still, let the face in smiles appear.”
Why drives the howling storm along?
Warbles the quivering boughs among?
The fury of the storm control,
Then-shake this weight from off the soul:
Which meaner spirits might have fled; I could have gloried in the strife
Which promised union with the dead; Yes, to my heart have pressed the blade
Which lent its brightness to my name, Laughed at the havoc it had made,
Cried, onwards, onwards, to my fame. Oh! to this heart ye once were dear,
Even as its idols ye were cherished, Honor and fame;-an angel pair,
I prized ye,-but ye both have perished. Yet had I bid adieu to those,
Though loved; though twined around my heart, I'd torn them thence, and could have rose
Smiling—though writhing with the smart. But 'tis not this which sinks the eye;
No, 'tis not this which swells thě breast With such a soul-embittered sigh,
Child of the heart that ne'er can rest.
Bereft of high ambition's meed,
And thou my dearer honour stained, From foul contempt I'd soon been freed,
But that one sweetening drop remained : One life-prized drop whose healing sweetness
Had soothed of woe its sharpest sting,
Every care on eagle wing.
Have echoed back its laugh of scorn;
Why grief usurps the place of mirth?
Of every joy and hope on earth? 'Tis o'er, to welcome death I flee;
I love !---come death and quench this fire,
For Fortune favoured them alike with store,
And gamed, lived high, and drove his coach and four. Though Philo sought dame Fortune, still she sent Her daughter there, and she to Valmont went;
Miss-fortune now contrived his hopes to dash, Caused all his trade and friends to die away, Emptied his shelves of stock, from day to day,
And left him smarting underneath the lash. Valmont passed by his shop a short time since, Not like a tradesman now, but like a prince;
Philo was labouring to regain his pelf“ How do ye, friend,” he cries; “ Not know me? how!” “I really have forgot you, Sir, I vow.” “ No wonder, Valmont, you've forgot yourself!"
U. U. L. * The Author is no more. His death was accelerated by his ill-fated passion.