Volume 2 — FRAGMENTS AND TRANSLATIONS.

As kings do rule like th' heavens, who dispense To parts remote and near their influence; So doth our Charles move also; while he posts From south to north, and back to southern coasts; Like to the starry orb, which in its round Moves to those very points; but while 'tis bound For north, there is—some guess—a trembling fit And shivering in the part that's opposite. What were our fears and pantings, what dire fame Heard we of Irish tumults, sword, and flame! Which now we think but blessings, as being sent Only as matter, whereupon 'twas meant, The British thus united might express, The strength of joinèd Powers to suppress, Or conquer foes. This is Great Britain's bliss; The island in itself a just world is. Here no commotion shall we find or fear, But of the Court's removal, no sad tear Or cloudy brow, but when you leave us. Then Discord is loyalty professèd, when Nations do strive, which shall the happier be T' enjoy your bounteous rays of majesty Which yet you throw in undivided dart, For things divine allow no share or part. The same kind virtue doth at once disclose The beauty of their thistle and our rose. Thus you do mingle souls and firmly knit What were but join'd before; you Scotsmen fit Closely with us, and reuniter prove; You fetch'd the crown before, and now their love.

Sure Priam will to mirth incline, And all that are of Priam's line.

Feeding on fruits which in the heavens do grow, Whence all divine and holy counsels flow.

Excel then if thou canst, be not withstood, But strive and overcome the evil with good.

You minister to others' wounds a cure, But leave your own all rotten and impure.

Chance, taking from me things of highest price, At a dear rate hath taught me to be wise.

[He] Knaves' tongues and calumnies no more doth prize Than the vain buzzing of so many flies.

His deep, dark heart—bent to supplant— Is iron, or else adamant.

What though they boast their riches unto us? Those cannot say that they are virtuous.

That man for misery excell'd All creatures which the wide world held.

A tender kid—see, where 'tis put— I on the hills did slay, Now dress'd and into quarters cut, A pleasant, dainty prey.

O health, the chief of gifts divine! I would I might with thee and thine Live all those days appointed mine!

Draw near, fond man, and dress thee by this glass, Mark how thy bravery and big looks must pass Into corruption, rottenness and dust; The frail supporters which betray'd thy trust. O weigh in time thy last and loathsome state! To purchase heav'n for tears is no hard rate. Our glory, greatness, wisdom, all we have, If mis-employ'd, but add hell to the grave: Only a fair redemption of evil times Finds life in death, and buries all our crimes.

My soul, my pleasant soul, and witty, The guest and consort of my body. Into what place now all alone Naked and sad wilt thou be gone? No mirth, no wit, as heretofore, Nor jests wilt thou afford me more.

What is't to me that spacious rivers run Whole ages, and their streams are never done? Those still remain: but all my fathers died, And I myself but for few days abide.

In March birds couple, a new birth Of herbs and flow'rs breaks through the earth; But in the grave none stirs his head, Long is the impris'ment of the dead.

So our decays God comforts by The stars' concurrent state on high.

There are that do believe all things succeed By chance or fortune: and that nought's decreed By a divine, wise Will; but blindly call Old Time and Nature rulers over all.

From the first hour the heavens were made Unto the last, when all shall fade, Count—if thou canst—the drops of dew, The stars of heav'n and streams that flow, The falling snow, the dropping show'rs, And in the month of May, the flow'rs, Their scents and colours, and what store Of grapes and apples Autumn bore, How many grains the Summer bears, What leaves the wind in Winter tears; Count all the creatures in the world, The motes which in the air are hurl'd, The hairs of beasts and mankind, and The shore's innumerable sand, The blades of grass, and to these last Add all the years which now are past, With those whose course is yet to come, And all their minutes in one sum. When all is done, the damned's state Outruns them still, and knows no date.

I saw beneath Tarentum's stately towers An old Cilician spend his peaceful hours. Some few bad acres in a waste, wild field, Which neither grass, nor corn, nor vines would yield, He did possess. There—amongst thorns and weeds— Cheap herbs and coleworts, with the common seeds Of chesboule or tame poppies, he did sow, And vervain with white lilies caused to grow. Content he was, as are successful kings, And late at night come home—for long work brings The night still home—with unbought messes laid On his low table he his hunger stay'd. Roses he gather'd in the youthful Spring, And apples in the Autumn home did bring: And when the sad, cold Winter burst with frost The stones, and the still streams in ice were lost, He would soft leaves of bear's-foot crop, and chide The slow west winds and ling'ring Summer-tide!

And rising at midnight the stars espied, All posting westward in a silent glide.

The trees we set grow slowly, and their shade Stays for our sons, while we—the planters—fade.

Here holy Anselm lives in ev'ry page, And sits archbishop still, to vex the age. Had he foreseen—and who knows but he did?— This fatal wrack, which deep in time lay hid, 'Tis but just to believe, that little hand Which clouded him, but now benights our land, Had never—like Elias—driv'n him hence, A sad retirer for a slight offence. For were he now, like the returning year, Restor'd, to view these desolations here, He would do penance for his old complaint, And—weeping—say, that Rufus was a saint.

The whole wench—how complete soe'er—was but A specious bait; a soft, sly, tempting slut; A pleasing witch; a living death; a fair, Thriving disease; a fresh, infectious air; A precious plague; a fury sweetly drawn; Wild fire laid up and finely dress'd in lawn.

Peter, when thou this pleasant world dost see, Believe, thou seest mere dreams and vanity, Not real things, but false, and through the air Each-where an empty, slipp'ry scene, though fair. The chirping birds, the fresh woods' shady boughs, The leaves' shrill whispers, when the west wind blows, The swift, fierce greyhounds coursing on the plains, The flying hare, distress'd 'twixt fear and pains, The bloomy maid decking with flow'rs her head, The gladsome, easy youth by light love led; And whatsoe'er here with admiring eyes Thou seem'st to see, 'tis but a frail disguise Worn by eternal things, a passive dress Put on by beings that are passiveless.

The naked man too gets the field, And often makes the armèd foe to yield.

[Some] struggle and groan as if by panthers torn, Or lions' teeth, which makes them loudly mourn; Some others seem unto themselves to die; Some climb steep solitudes and mountains high, From whence they seem to fall inanely down, Panting with fear, till wak'd, and scarce their own They feel about them if in bed they lie, Deceiv'd with dreams, and Night's imagery. In vain with earnest strugglings they contend To ease themselves: for when they stir and bend Their greatest force to do it, even then most Of all they faint, and in their hopes are cross'd. Nor tongue, nor hand, nor foot will serve their turn, But without speech and strength within, they mourn.

Thou the nepenthe easing grief Art, and the mind's healing relief.

Base man! and couldst thou think Cato alone Wants courage to be dry? and but him, none? Look'd I so soft? breath'd I such base desires, Not proof against this Lybic sun's weak fires? That shame and plague on thee more justly lie! To drink alone, when all our troops are dry. For with brave rage he flung it on the sand, And the spilt draught suffic'd each thirsty band

[Death keeps off] And will not bear the cry Of distress'd man, nor shut his weeping eye

It lives when kill'd, and brancheth when 'tis lopp'd.

Like some fair oak, that when her boughs Are cut by rude hands, thicker grows; And from those wounds the iron made Resumes a rich and fresher shade.

Patience digesteth misery.

——They fain would—if they might— Descend to hide themselves in Hell. So light Of foot is Vengeance; and so near to sin, That soon as done, the actors do begin To fear and suffer by themselves: Death moves Before their eyes; sad dens and dusky groves They haunt, and hope—vain hope which Fear doth guide!— That those dark shades their inward guilt can hide.

But night and day doth his own life molest, And bears his judge and witness in his breast.

Virtue's fair cares some people measure For poisonous works that hinder pleasure.

Man should with virtue arm'd and hearten'd be, And innocently watch his enemy: For fearless freedom, which none can control, Is gotten by a pure and upright soul.

Whose guilty soul, with terrors fraught, doth frame New torments still, and still doth blow that flame Which still burns him, nor sees what end can be Of his dire plagues, and fruitful penalty; But fears them living, and fears more to die; Which makes his life a constant tragedy.

And for life's sake to lose the crown of life.

Nature even for herself doth lay a snare, And handsome faces their own traitors are.

True life in this is shown, To live for all men's good, not for our own.

As Egypt's drought by Nilus is redress'd, So thy wise tongue doth comfort the oppress'd.

[Like] to speedy posts, bear hence the lamp of life.

All worldly things, even while they grow, decay; As smoke doth, by ascending, waste away.

To live a stranger unto life.

Whose hissings fright all Nature's monstrous ills; His eye darts death, more swift than poison kills. All monsters by instinct to him give place, They fly for life, for death lives in his face; And he alone by Nature's hid commands Reigns paramount, and prince of all the sands.

The plenteous evils of frail life fill the old: Their wasted limbs the loose skin in dry folds Doth hang about: their joints are numb'd, and through Their veins, not blood, but rheums and waters flow. Their trembling bodies with a staff they stay, Nor do they breathe, but sadly sigh all day. Thoughts tire their hearts, to them their very mind Is a disease; their eyes no sleep can find.

Against the virtuous man we all make head, And hate him while he lives, but praise him dead.

Long life, oppress'd with many woes, Meets more, the further still it goes.

What greater good had deck'd great Pompey's crown Than death, if in his honours fully blown, And mature glories he had died? those piles Of huge success, loud fame, and lofty styles Built in his active youth, long lazy life Saw quite demolish'd by ambitious strife. He lived to wear the weak and melting snow Of luckless age, where garlands seldom grow, But by repining Fate torn from the head Which wore them once, are on another shed.

Whom God doth take care for, and love, He dies young here, to live above.

Sickness and death, you are but sluggish things, And cannot reach a heart that hath got wings.

Let me not weep to see thy ravish'd house All sad and silent, without lord or spouse, And all those vast dominions once thine own Torn 'twixt a hundred slaves to me unknown.

How could that paper sent, That luckless paper, merit thy contempt? Ev'n foe to foe—though furiously—replies, And the defied his enemy defies. Amidst the swords and wounds, there's a salute, Rocks answer man, and though hard are not mute. Nature made nothing dumb, nothing unkind: The trees and leaves speak trembling to the wind. If thou dost fear discoveries, and the blot Of my love, Tanaquil shall know it not.

Obdurate still and tongue-tied, you accuse —Though yours is ever vocal—my dull muse; You blame my lazy, lurking life, and add I scorn your love, a calumny most sad; Then tell me, that I fear my wife, and dart Harsh, cutting words against my dearest heart. Leave, learnèd father, leave this bitter course, My studies are not turn'd unto the worse; I am not mad, nor idle, nor deny Your great deserts, and my debt, nor have I A wife like Tanaquil, as wildly you Object, but a Lucretia, chaste and true.

This pledge of your joint love, to heaven now fled, With honey-combs and milk of life is fed. Or with the Bethlem babes—whom Herod's rage Kill'd in their tender, happy, holy age— Doth walk the groves of Paradise, and make Garlands, which those young martyrs from him take. With these his eyes on the mild Lamb are fix'd, A virgin-child with virgin-infants mix'd. Such is my Celsus too, who soon as given, Was taken back—on the eighth day—to heaven To whom at Alcala I sadly gave Amongst the martyrs' tombs a little grave. He now with yours—gone both the blessed way— Amongst the trees of life doth smile and play; And this one drop of our mix'd blood may be A light for my Therasia, and for me.

Sweet Paulinus, and is thy nature turn'd? Have I so long in vain thy absence mourn'd? Wilt thou, my glory, and great Rome's delight, The Senate's prop, their oracle, and light, In Bilbilis and Calagurris dwell, Changing thy ivory-chair for a dark cell? Wilt bury there thy purple, and contemn All the great honours of thy noble stem?

Shall I believe you can make me return, Who pour your fruitless prayers when you mourn, Not to your Maker? Who can hear you cry, But to the fabled nymphs of Castaly? You never shall by such false gods bring me Either to Rome, or to your company. As for those former things you once did know, And which you still call mine, I freely now Confess, I am not he, whom you knew then; I have died since, and have been born again. Nor dare I think my sage instructor can Believe it error, for redeemèd man To serve his great Redeemer. I grieve not But glory so to err. Let the wise knot Of worldlings call me fool; I slight their noise, And hear my God approving of my choice. Man is but glass, a building of no trust, A moving shade, and, without Christ, mere dust. His choice in life concerns the chooser much: For when he dies, his good or ill—just such As here it was—goes with him hence, and stays Still by him, his strict judge in the last days. These serious thoughts take up my soul, and I, While yet 'tis daylight, fix my busy eye Upon His sacred rules, life's precious sum Who in the twilight of the world shall come To judge the lofty looks, and show mankind The diff'rence 'twixt the ill and well inclin'd. This second coming of the world's great King Makes my heart tremble, and doth timely bring A saving care into my watchful soul, Lest in that day all vitiated and foul I should be found—that day, Time's utmost line, When all shall perish but what is divine; When the great trumpet's mighty blast shall shake The earth's foundations, till the hard rocks quake And melt like piles of snow; when lightnings move Like hail, and the white thrones are set above: That day, when sent in glory by the Father, The Prince of Life His blest elect shall gather; Millions of angels round about Him flying, While all the kindreds of the Earth are crying; And He enthron'd upon the clouds shall give His last just sentence, who must die, who live. This is the fear, this is the saving care That makes me leave false honours, and that share Which fell to me of this frail world, lest by A frequent use of present pleasures I Should quite forget the future, and let in Foul atheism, or some presumptuous sin. Now by their loss I have secur'd my life, And bought my peace ev'n with the cause of strife. I live to Him Who gave me life and breath, And without fear expect the hour of death. If you like this, bid joy to my rich state, If not, leave me to Christ at any rate.

And is the bargain thought too dear, To give for heaven our frail subsistence here? To change our mortal with immortal homes, And purchase the bright stars with darksome stones? Behold! my God—a rate great as His breath!— On the sad cross bought me with bitter death, Did put on flesh, and suffer'd for our good, For ours—vile slaves!—the loss of His dear blood.

Life, Marcellina, leaving thy fair frame, Thou didst contemn those tombs of costly fame, Built by thy Roman ancestors, and liest At Milan, where great Ambrose sleeps in Christ. Hope, the dead's life, and faith, which never faints, Made thee rest here, that thou mayst rise with saints.

You that to wash your flesh and souls draw near, Ponder these two examples set you here: Great Martin shows the holy life, and white, Paulinus to repentance doth invite; Martin's pure, harmless life, took heaven by force, Paulinus took it by tears and remorse; Martin leads through victorious palms and flow'rs, Paulinus leads you through the pools and show'rs; You that are sinners, on Paulinus look, You that are saints, great Martin is your book; The first example bright and holy is, The last, though sad and weeping, leads to bliss

Here the great well-spring of wash'd souls with beams Of living light quickens the lively streams; The Dove descends, and stirs them with her wings, So weds these waters to the upper springs. They straight conceive; a new birth doth proceed From the bright streams by an immortal seed. O the rare love of God! sinners wash'd here Come forth pure saints, all justified and clear. So blest in death and life, man dies to sins, And lives to God: sin dies, and life begins To be reviv'd: old Adam falls away And the new lives, born for eternal sway.

Through pleasant green fields enter you the way To bliss; and well through shades and blossoms may The walks lead here, from whence directly lies The good man's path to sacred Paradise.

The painful cross with flowers and palms is crown'd, Which prove, it springs; though all in blood 'tis drown'd; The doves above it show with one consent, Heaven opens only to the innocent.

You see what splendour through the spacious aisle, As if the Church were glorified, doth smile. The ivory-wrought beams seem to the sight Engraven, while the carv'd roof looks curl'd and bright. On brass hoops to the upmost vaults we tie The hovering lamps, which nod and tremble by The yielding cords; fresh oil doth still repair The waving flames, vex'd with the fleeting air.

The pains of Saints and Saints' rewards are twins, The sad cross, and the crown which the cross wins. Here Christ, the Prince both of the cross and crown, Amongst fresh groves and lilies fully blown Stands, a white Lamb bearing the purple cross: White shows His pureness, red His blood's dear loss. To ease His sorrows the chaste turtle sings, And fans Him, sweating blood, with her bright wings; While from a shining cloud the Father eyes His Son's sad conflict with His enemies, And on His blessed head lets gently down Eternal glory made into a crown. About Him stand two flocks of diff'ring notes, One of white sheep, and one of speckled goats; The first possess His right hand, and the last Stand on His left; the spotted goats are cast All into thick, deep shades, while from His right The white sheep pass into a whiter light.

Those sacred days by tedious Time delay'd, While the slow years' bright line about is laid, I patiently expect, though much distrest By busy longing and a love-sick breast. I wish they may outshine all other days; Or, when they come, so recompense delays As to outlast the summer hours' bright length; Or that fam'd day, when stopp'd by divine strength The sun did tire the world with his long light, Doubling men's labours, and adjourning night. As the bright sky with stars, the field with flow'rs, The years with diff'ring seasons, months and hours, God hath distinguishèd and mark'd, so He With sacred feasts did ease and beautify The working days: because that mixture may Make men—loth to be holy ev'ry day— After long labours, with a freer will, Adore their Maker, and keep mindful still Of holiness, by keeping holy days: For otherwise they would dislike the ways Of piety as too severe. To cast Old customs quite off, and from sin to fast Is a great work. To run which way we will, On plains is easy, not so up a hill. Hence 'tis our good God—Who would all men bring Under the covert of His saving wing— Appointed at set times His solemn feasts, That by mean services men might at least Take hold of Christ as by the hem, and steal Help from His lowest skirts, their souls to heal. For the first step to heaven is to live well All our life long, and each day to excel In holiness; but since that tares are found In the best corn, and thistles will confound And prick my heart with vain cares, I will strive To weed them out on feast-days, and so thrive By handfuls, 'till I may full life obtain, And not be swallow'd of eternal pain.

Come, my true consort in my joys and care! Let this uncertain and still wasting share Of our frail life be giv'n to God. You see How the swift days drive hence incessantly, And the frail, drooping world—though still thought gay[69]— In secret, slow consumption wears away. All that we have pass from us, and once past Return no more; like clouds, they seem to last, And so delude loose, greedy minds. But where Are now those trim deceits? to what dark sphere Are all those false fires sunk, which once so shin'd, They captivated souls, and rul'd mankind? He that with fifty ploughs his lands did sow, Will scarce be trusted for two oxen now; His rich, loud coach, known to each crowded street, Is sold, and he quite tir'd walks on his feet. Merchants that—like the sun—their voyage made From East to West, and by wholesale did trade, Are now turn'd sculler-men, or sadly sweat In a poor fisher's boat, with line and net. Kingdoms and cities to a period tend; Earth nothing hath, but what must have an end; Mankind by plagues, distempers, dearth and war, Tortures and prisons, die both near and far; Fury and hate rage in each living breast, Princes with princes, States with States contest; An universal discord mads each land, Peace is quite lost, the last times are at hand. But were these days from the Last Day secure, So that the world might for more years endure, Yet we—like hirelings—should our term expect, And on our day of death each day reflect. For what—Therasia—doth it us avail That spacious streams shall flow and never fail, That aged forests hie to tire the winds, And flow'rs each Spring return and keep their kinds! Those still remain: but all our fathers died, And we ourselves but for few days abide. This short time then was not giv'n us in vain, To whom Time dies, in which we dying gain, But that in time eternal life should be Our care, and endless rest our industry. And yet this task, which the rebellious deem Too harsh, who God's mild laws for chains esteem, Suits with the meek and harmless heart so right That 'tis all ease, all comfort and delight. "To love our God with all our strength and will; To covet nothing; to devise no ill Against our neighbours; to procure or do Nothing to others, which we would not to Our very selves; not to revenge our wrong; To be content with little, not to long For wealth and greatness; to despise or jeer No man, and if we be despised, to bear; To feed the hungry; to hold fast our crown; To take from others naught; to give our own," —These are His precepts: and—alas!—in these What is so hard, but faith can do with ease? He that the holy prophets doth believe, And on God's words relies, words that still live And cannot die; that in his heart hath writ His Saviour's death and triumph, and doth yet With constant care, admitting no neglect, His second, dreadful coming still expect: To such a liver earthy things are dead, With Heav'n alone, and hopes of Heav'n, he's fed, He is no vassal unto worldly trash, Nor that black knowledge which pretends to wash, But doth defile: a knowledge, by which men With studied care lose Paradise again. Commands and titles, the vain world's device, With gold—the forward seed of sin and vice— He never minds: his aim is far more high, And stoops to nothing lower than the sky. Nor grief, nor pleasures breed him any pain, He nothing fears to lose, would nothing gain, Whatever hath not God, he doth detest, He lives to Christ, is dead to all the rest. This Holy One sent hither from above A virgin brought forth, shadow'd by the Dove; His skin with stripes, with wicked hands His face And with foul spittle soil'd and beaten was; A crown of thorns His blessed head did wound. Nails pierc'd His hands and feet, and He fast bound Stuck to the painful Cross, where hang'd till dead, With a cold spear His heart's dear blood was shed. All this for man, for bad, ungrateful man, The true God suffer'd! not that suff'rings can Add to His glory aught, Who can receive Access from nothing, Whom none can bereave Of His all-fulness: but the blest design Of His sad death was to save me from mine: He dying bore my sins, and the third day His early rising rais'd me from the clay. To such great mercies what shall I prefer, Or who from loving God shall me deter? Burn me alive, with curious, skilful pain, Cut up and search each warm and breathing vein; When all is done, death brings a quick release, And the poor mangled body sleeps in peace. Hale me to prisons, shut me up in brass, My still free soul from thence to God shall pass. Banish or bind me, I can be nowhere A stranger, nor alone; my God is there. I fear not famine; how can he be said To starve who feeds upon the Living Bread? And yet this courage springs not from my store, Christ gave it me, Who can give much, much more I of myself can nothing dare or do, He bids me fight, and makes me conquer too. If—like great Abr'ham—I should have command To leave my father's house and native land, I would with joy to unknown regions run, Bearing the banner of His blessed Son. On worldly goods I will have no design, But use my own, as if mine were not mine; Wealth I'll not wonder at, nor greatness seek, But choose—though laugh'd at—to be poor and meek. In woe and wealth I'll keep the same staid mind, Grief shall not break me, nor joys make me blind: My dearest Jesus I'll still praise, and He Shall with songs of deliv'rance compass me. Then come, my faithful consort! join with me In this good fight, and my true helper be; Cheer me when sad, advise me when I stray, Let us be each the other's guide and stay; Be your lord's guardian: give joint aid and due, Help him when fall'n, rise, when he helpeth you, That so we may not only one flesh be, But in one spirit and one will agree.

Where'er my fancy calls, there I go still, Not sworn a slave to any master's will.

There's need, betwixt his clothes, his bed and board, Of all that Earth and Sea and Air afford.

With restless cares they waste the night and day, To compass great estates, and get the sway.

Whenever did, I pray, One lion take another's life away? Or in what forest did a wild boar by The tusks of his own fellow wounded die? Tigers with tigers never have debate; And bears among themselves abstain from hate

[Some] esteem it no point of revenge to kill, Unless they may drink up the blood they spill: Who do believe that hands, and hearts, and heads, Are but a kind of meat, etc.

The strongest body and the best Cannot subsist without due rest.

Y Pader, pan trier, Duw-tri a'i dododd O'i dadol ddaioni, Yn faen-gwaddan i bob gweddi, Ac athrawieth a wnaeth i ni.

Time's-Teller wrought into a little round, Which count'st the days and nights with watchful sound; How—when once fix'd—with busy wheels dost thou The twice twelve useful hours drive on and show; And where I go, go'st with me without strife, The monitor and ease of fleeting life.

The untired strength of never-ceasing motion, A restless rest, a toilless operation, Heaven then had given it, when wise Nature did To frail and solid things one place forbid; And parting both, made the moon's orb their bound, Damning to various change this lower ground. But now what Nature hath those laws transgress'd, Giving to Earth a work that ne'er will rest? Though 'tis most strange, yet—great King—'tis not new: This work was seen and found before, in you. In you, whose mind—though still calm—never sleeps, But through your realms one constant motion keeps: As your mind—then—was Heaven's type first, so this But the taught anti-type of your mind is.

How oft have we beheld wild beasts appear From broken gulfs of earth, upon some part Of sand that did not sink! How often there And thence, did golden boughs o'er-saffron'd start! Nor only saw we monsters of the wood, But I have seen sea-calves whom bears withstood; And such a kind of beast as might be named A horse, but in most foul proportion framed.

That the fierce pard doth at a beck Yield to the yoke his spotted neck, And the untoward tiger bear The whip with a submissive fear; That stags do foam with golden bits. And the rough Libyc bear submits Unto the ring; that a wild boar Like that which Calydon of yore Brought forth, doth mildly put his head In purple muzzles to be led; That the vast, strong-limb'd buffles draw The British chariots with taught awe, And the elephant with courtship falls To any dance the negro calls: Would not you think such sports as those Were shows which the gods did expose? But these are nothing, when we see That hares by lions hunted be, etc.