Everforever trick or treat 4

Stream [Forever Friday] Trick Or Treat, Smell My Feet by Quicksilver on desktop and mobile. Play over 265 million tracks for free on SoundCloud.

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New business and new shirt alert. This last week I headed over to the new ice cream parlour in Windsor to have (and I do not say this lightly) some of the best ice cream ever. I know it’s winter, but the chimney cake cone makes it the perfect treat no matter the time of year. I obviously decided to colour code my outfit to the ice cream parlour I am going to.

I ended my trip with a beautifully tailored men’s blazer. My shopping suggestion to all women is never be scared of the menswear section; some of my favourite pieces, I have found in aisles I have stumbled in on accident. I have been looking for the perfect over-sized blazer and this navy blue low cut men’s blazer did the trick. So next time you go shopping, skip the mall and make your way to your nearest thrift or consignment shop, to find that one piece, that was meant for you.

In May, 1747, the year in which his father died,—an event that further contracted his already slender means,—he became involved in a college riot, and was publicly admonished. From this disgrace he recovered to some extent in the following month by obtaining a trifling money exhibition, a triumph which he unluckily celebrated by a party at his rooms. Into these festivities, the heinousness of which was aggravated by the fact that they included guests of both sexes, the exasperated Wilder made irruption, and summarily terminated the proceedings by knocking down the host. The disgrace was too much for the poor lad. He forthwith sold his books and belongings, and ran away, vaguely bound for America. But after considerable privations, including the achievement of a destitution so complete that a handful of grey peas, given him by a girl at a wake, seemed a banquet, he turned his steps homeward, and, a reconciliation having been patched up with his tutor, he was received once more at college. In February, 1749, he took his degree, a low one, as B.A., and quitted the university, leaving behind him, for relics of that time, a scratched signature upon a window-pane, a

The arrangement thus concluded was not calculated to endure. After some five months of labour from nine till two, and often later, it came suddenly to an end. No clear explanation of the breach is forthcoming, but mere incompatability of temper would probably supply a sufficient ground for disagreement. Goldsmith, it is said, complained that the bookseller and his wife treated him ill, and denied him ordinary comforts; added to which the lady, a harder taskmistress even than the

Sweet was the sound, when oft at evening’s close Up yonder hill the village murmur rose; There, as I pass’d with careless steps and slow, 115 The mingling notes came soften’d from below; The swain responsive as the milk-maid sung, The sober herd that low’d to meet their young; The noisy geese that gabbled o’er the pool, The playful children just let loose from school; 120 The watchdog’s voice that bay’d the whisp’ring wind, And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind; These all in sweet confusion sought the shade, And fill’d each pause the nightingale had made. But now the sounds of population fail, 125 No cheerful murmurs fluctuate in the gale, No busy steps the grass-grown foot-way tread, For all the bloomy flush of life is fled. All but yon widow’d, solitary thing That feebly bends beside the plashy spring; 130 She, wretched matron, forc’d in age, for bread, To strip the brook with mantling cresses spread, To pick her wintry faggot from the thorn, To seek her nightly shed, and weep till morn; She only left of all the harmless train, 135 The sad historian of the pensive plain.

Near yonder copse, where once the garden smil’d, And still where many a garden flower grows wild; There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose, The village preacher’s modest mansion rose. 140

As puffing quacks some caitiff wretch procure To swear the pill, or drop, has wrought a cure; Thus on the stage, our play-wrights still depend For Epilogues and Prologues on some friend, Who knows each art of coaxing up the town, 5 And make full many a bitter pill go down. Conscious of this, our bard has gone about, And teas’d each rhyming friend to help him out. ‘An Epilogue—things can’t go on without it; It could not fail, would you but set about it.’ 10 ‘Young man,’ cries one—a bard laid up in clover— ‘Alas, young man, my writing days are over; Let boys play tricks, and kick the straw; not I: Your brother Doctor there, perhaps, may try.’ ‘What I? dear Sir,’ the Doctor interposes 15 ‘What plant my thistle, Sir, among his roses! No, no; I’ve other contests to maintain; To-night I head our troops at Warwick Lane: Go, ask your manager.’ ‘Who, me? Your pardon; Those things are not our forte at Covent Garden.’ 20 Our Author’s friends, thus plac’d at happy distance, Give him good words indeed, but no assistance. As some unhappy wight, at some new play, At the Pit door stands elbowing a way, While oft, with many a smile, and many a shrug, 25 He eyes the centre, where his friends sit snug;

The praise attending pomp and power, The incense given to kings, Are but the trappings of an hour— Mere transitory things! The base bestow them: but the good agree 10 To spurn the venal gifts as flattery. But when to pomp and power are join’d An equal dignity of mind— When titles are the smallest claim— When wealth and rank and noble blood, 15 But aid the power of doing good— Then all their trophies last; and flattery turns to fame.

Bless’d spirit thou, whose fame, just born to bloom Shall spread and flourish from the tomb, How hast thou left mankind for heaven! 20 Even now reproach and faction mourn. And, wondering how their rage was borne, Request to be forgiven. Alas! they never had thy hate: Unmov’d in conscious rectitude, 25 Thy towering mind self-centred stood, Nor wanted man’s opinion to be great. In vain, to charm thy ravish’d sight, A thousand gifts would fortune send; In vain, to drive thee from the right, 30 A thousand sorrows urg’d thy end: Like some well-fashion’d arch thy patience stood, And purchas’d strength from its increasing load. Pain met thee like a friend that set thee free; Affliction still is virtue’s opportunity! 35 Virtue, on herself relying, Ev’ry passion hush’d to rest, Loses ev’ry pain of dying In the hopes of being blest. Ev’ry added pang she suffers 40 Some increasing good bestows, Ev’ry shock that malice offers Only rocks her to repose.

Yet let that wisdom, urged by her example, Teach us to estimate what all must suffer; 85 Let us prize death as the best gift of nature— As a safe inn, where weary travellers, When they have journeyed through a world of cares, May put off life and be at rest for ever. Groans, weeping friends, indeed, and gloomy sables, 90 May oft distract us with their sad solemnity: The preparation is the executioner. Death, when unmasked, shows me a friendly face, And is a terror only at a distance; For as the line of life conducts me on 95 To Death’s great court, the prospect seems more fair. ’Tis Nature’s kind retreat, that’s always open To take us in when we have drained the cup Of life, or worn our days to wretchedness. In that secure, serene retreat, 100 Where all the humble, all the great, Promiscuously recline; Where wildly huddled to the eye, The beggar’s pouch and prince’s purple lie, May every bliss be thine. 105 And ah! bless’d spirit, wheresoe’er thy flight, Through rolling worlds, or fields of liquid light, May cherubs welcome their expected guest; May saints with songs receive thee to their rest;

First of the train the patient rustic came, Whose callous hand had form’d the scene, Bending at once with sorrow and with age, 30 With many a tear and many a sigh between; ‘And where,’ he cried, ‘shall now my babes have bread, Or how shall age support its feeble fire? No lord will take me now, my vigour fled, Nor can my strength perform what they require; 35 Each grudging master keeps the labourer bare— A sleek and idle race is all their care. My noble mistress thought not so: Her bounty, like the morning dew, Unseen, though constant, used to flow; 40 And as my strength decay’d, her bounty grew.’