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are sure the thing itself be so. We commonly are at "What's the reason of it?" before we are sure of the thing. 'Twas an excellent question of my Lady Cotton, when Sir Robert Cotton was magnifying of a shoe which was Moses's or Noah's, and wondering at the strange shape and fashion of it: "But, Mr. Cotton," says she, "are you sure it is a shoe?"

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Reverence. 'Tis sometimes unreasonable to look after respect and reverence, either from a man's own servant or other inferiors. A great lord and a gentleman talking together, there came a boy by, leading a calf with both his hands. Says the lord to the gentleman, "You shall see me make the boy let go his calf;" with that he came toward him, thinking the boy would have put off his hat, but the boy took no notice of him. The lord seeing that, "Sirrah," says he, "do you not know me, that you use no reverence?" "Yes," says the boy, "if your lordship will hold my calf I will put off my hat."

Religion. Alteration of religion is dangerous, because we know not where it will stay. 'Tis like a millstone that lies upon the top of a pair of stairs: 'tis hard to remove it, but if once it be thrust off the first stair, it never stays till it comes to the bottom.

Teach the Teachers. Use the best arguments to persuade, though but few understand; for the ignorant will sooner believe the judicious of the parish than the preacher himself; and they teach when they dissipate what he has said, and believe it the sooner, confirmed by men of their own side. For betwixt the laity and the clergy there is, as it were, a continual driving of a bargain; something the clergy would still have us be at, and therefore many things are heard from the preacher with suspicion. They are afraid of some ends, which are easily assented to when they have it from some of themselves. "Tis with a sermon as 'tis with a play: many come to see it who do not understand it, and yet, hearing it cried up by one whose judgment they cast themselves upon, and of power with them, they swear, and will die in it, that 'tis a very good play, which they would not have done if the priest himself had told them As in a great school 'tis not the master that teaches all; the monitor does a great deal of work; it may be the boys are afraid to see the master: so in a parish 'tis not the minister does all; the greater neighbor teaches the lesser, the master of the house teaches his servant, etc.

so.

Trifles. Little things do great works when the great

things will not. If I would take a pin from the ground, a little pair of tongs will do it, when a great pair will not.

Thanksgiving. At first we gave thanks for every victory as soon as ever 'twas obtained; but since we have had many, now we can stay a good while. We are just like a child: give him a plum, he makes his leg; give him a second plum, he makes another leg; at last, when his belly is full, he forgets what he ought to do; then his nurse, or somebody else that stands by him, puts him in mind of his duty: "Where's your leg?"

Trade. That which a man is bred up in he thinks no cheating; as your tradesman thinks not so of his profession, but calls it a mystery. Whereas, if you would teach a mercer to make his silks heavier than what he has been used to, he would peradventure think that to be cheating.

Truth. The way to find out the truth is by others' mistakings for if I was to go to such a place, and one had gone before me on the right hand, and he was out; another had gone on the left hand, and he was out: this would direct me to keep the middle way, which peradventure would bring me to the place I desired to go.

In troubled water you can scarce see your face, or see it very little, till the water be quiet and stand still. So in troubled times you can see little truth. When times are quiet and settled, then truth appears.

War. Do not undervalue an enemy by whom you have been worsted. When our countrymen came home from fighting with the Saracens, and were beaten by them, they pictured them with huge, big, terrible faces (as you still see the sign of the Saracen's head is), when in truth they were like other men. But this they did to save their own credit.

Wisdom. A wise man should never resolve upon anything, at least never let the world know his resolution; for if he cannot arrive at it, he is ashamed. A man must do according to accidents and emergencies.

Never tell your resolution beforehand; but when the cast is thrown, play it, as well as you can, to win the game you are at. 'Tis but folly to study how to play size ace when you know not whether you shall throw it or no.

Wise men say nothing in dangerous times. The lion, you know, called the sheep to ask her if his breath smelt: she said, "Aye"; he bit off her head for a fool. He called the wolf and

asked him; he said, "No"; he tore him to pieces for a flatterer. At last he called the fox and asked him: "Truly he had got a cold and could not smell."

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Wit. Wit must grow like fingers. If it be taken from others, 'tis like plums stuck upon blackthorns: there they are for a while, but they come to nothing.

He that will give himself to all manner of ways to get money may be rich; so he that lets fly all he knows or thinks may by chance be satirically witty. Honesty sometimes keeps a man from growing rich, and civility from being witty.

Women. Women and princes must both trust somebody; and they are happy or unhappy according to the desert of those under whose hands they fall. If a man knows how to manage the favor of a lady, her honor is safe, and so is a prince's.

MY DEAR AND ONLY LOVE.

BY THE MARQUIS OF MONTROSE.

[JAMES GRAHAM, MARQUIS OF MONTROSE, was born at Edinburgh in 1612; and after studying at St. Andrews University, and traveling three years on the Continent, joined the Covenanters against Charles I. in 1638. Their policy drove him to the side of the king the next year, and he became the ablest general Charles had, winning several splendid victories in Scotland; but his Highland allies deserted him when he wished to act on a wider field, the outrages of his Irish soldiers roused the horror and fury of the Lowlanders, and he was finally beaten and driven from the kingdom. Returning in 1650 with a small force, he was defeated and captured, and hanged in Edinburgh, May 21.]

PART FIRST.

MY DEAR and only love, I pray,

This noble world of thee

Be governed by no other sway
But purest monarchy.

For if confusion have a part,

Which virtuous souls abhore,
And hold a synod in thy heart,
I'll never love thee more.

Like Alexander I will reign,
And I will reign alone,

My thoughts shall evermore disdain
A rival on my throne.

He either fears his fate too much,
Or his deserts are small,
That puts it not unto the touch,
To win or lose it all.

But I must rule and govern still
And always give the law,
And have each subject at my will,
And all to stand in awe.
But 'gainst my battery if I find
Thou shun'st the prize so sore
As that thou set'st me up a blind,
I'll never love thee more.

If in the empire of thy heart,
Where I should solely be,
Another do pretend a part,
And dares to vie with me;
Or if committees thou erect,

And go on such a score,
I'll sing and laugh at thy neglect,
And never love thee more.

But if thou wilt be constant then,
And faithful of thy word,
I'll make thee glorious by my pen,
And famous by my sword.

I'll serve thee in such noble ways
Was never heard before;

I'll crown and deck thee all with bays,
And love thee ever more.

PART SECOND.

My dear and only love, take heed,
Lest thou thyself expose,

And let all longing lovers feed
Upon such looks as those.

A marble wall then build about,
Beset without a door;

But if thou let thy heart fly out,
I'll never love thee more.

Let not their oaths, like volleys shot, Make any breach at all;

Nor smoothness of their language plot
Which way to scale the wall;
Nor balls of wildfire love consume
The shrine which I adore;
For if such smoke about thee fume,
I'll never love thee more.

I think thy virtues be too strong
To suffer by surprise;
Those victualed by my love so long,
The siege at length must rise,
And leave thee rulèd in that health
And state thou wast before;
But if thou turn a commonwealth,
I'll never love thee more.

Or if by fraud, or by consent,
Thy heart to ruin come,
I'll sound no trumpet as I wont,

Nor march by tuck of drum;
But hold my arms, like ensigns, up,

Thy falsehood to deplore,

And bitterly will sigh and weep,
And never love thee more.

I'll do with thee as Nero did
When Rome was set on fire,
Not only all relief forbid,
But to a hill retire,

And scorn to shed a tear to see
Thy spirit grown so poor;
But smiling sing, until I die,
I'll never love thee more.

Yet, for the love I bore thee once,
Lest that thy name should die,
A monument of marble stone
The truth shall testify;

That every pilgrim passing by

May pity and deplore

My case, and read the reason why

I can love thee no more.

The golden laws of love shall be

Upon this pillar hung,

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