the ventricle of memory, nourished in the womb of pia mater, and delivered upon the mellowing of occasion. But the gift is good in those in whom it is acute, and I am thankful for it. Sir, I praise the Lord for you; and so may my parishioners; for their sons are well tutored by you, and their daughters profit very greatly under you: you are a good member of the commonwealth. Mehercle, if their sons be ingenuous, they shall want no instruction; if their daughters be capable, I will put it to them: but vir sapit qui pauca loquitur; a soul feminine saluteth us. God give you good morrow, master Parson. Master Parson, quasi pers-on. An if one should be pierced, which is the one? Marry, master schoolmaster, he that is likest to a hogshead. Piercing a hogshead! a good lustre of conceit in a tuft of earth; fire enough for a flint, pearl enough for a swine: 'tis pretty; it is well. Good master Parson, be so good as read me this letter: it was given me by Costard, and sent me from Don Armado: I beseech you, read it. Fauste, precor gelida quando pecus omne sub umbra Ruminat,--and so forth. Ah, good old Mantuan! I may speak of thee as the traveller doth of Venice; Venetia, Venetia, Chi non ti vede non ti pretia. Old Mantuan, old Mantuan! who understandeth thee not, loves thee not. Ut, re, sol, la, mi, fa. Under pardon, sir, what are the contents? or rather, as Horace says in his--What, my soul, verses? Ay, sir, and very learned. Let me hear a staff, a stanze, a verse; lege, domine. If love make me forsworn, how shall I swear to love? Ah, never faith could hold, if not to beauty vow'd! Though to myself forsworn, to thee I'll faithful prove: Those thoughts to me were oaks, to thee like osiers bow'd. Study his bias leaves and makes his book thine eyes, Where all those pleasures live that art would comprehend: If knowledge be the mark, to know thee shall suffice; Well learned is that tongue that well can thee commend, All ignorant that soul that sees thee without wonder; Which is to me some praise that I thy parts admire: Thy eye Jove's lightning bears, thy voice his dreadful thunder, Which not to anger bent, is music and sweet fire. Celestial as thou art, O, pardon, love, this wrong, That sings heaven's praise with such an earthly tongue. You find not the apostraphas, and so