But when it rages, and the wind blows high,
She cuts her way with skill and majesty.

BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER.

* * * * *


SOLITUDE.


O sweet woods, the delight of solitariness!
O how much do I like your solitariness!
Here nor reason is hid, vailed in innocence,
Nor envy's snaky eye, finds any harbour here.
Nor flatterer's venomous insinuations.
Nor coming humourist's puddled opinions,
Nor courteous ruin of proffer'd usury,
Nor time prattled away, cradle of ignorance,
Nor causeless duty, nor cumber of arrogance,
Nor trifling titles of vanity dazzleth us,
Nor golden manacles stand for a paradise.
Here wrong's name is unheard; slander a monster is,
Keep thy sprite from abuse, here no abuse doth haunt,
What man grafts in a tree dissimulation.

SIR P. SIDNEY'S _Arcadia_.

* * * * *