I shall have ended an untoward enterprize,
And if that honest creature I have told you of
Still breathes this vital air, and will not know me,
May hospitality keep closed her gates
Against me, till I find a home within
The grave. CYMBELINE.

* * * * *


M. BOILEAU TO HIS GARDENER.

IMITATED

(_For the Mirror_.)


Industrious man, thou art a prize to me,
The best of masters--surely born for thee;
Thou keeper art of this my rural seat,[4]
Kept at my charge to keep my garden neat;
To train the woodbine and to crop the yew--
In th' art of gard'ning equall'd p'rhaps by few.
O! could I cultivate my barren soul,
As thou this garden canst so well control;
Pluck up each brier and thorn, by frequent toil,
And clear the mind as thou canst cleanse the soil[5]

But now, my faithful servant, Anthony,
Just speak, and tell me what you think of me;