She, her neat taste imparted to the Farm,
And he, th' improving skill and vigorous arm.



TALE VIII.



THE MOTHER.

What though you have beauty,
Must you be therefore proud and pitiless?
SHAKESPEARE, As You Like It.

I would not marry her, though she were endowed with all that
Adam had left him before he transgressed.
As You Like It.

Wilt thou love such a woman? What! to make thee an instrument,
and play false strains upon thee!--Not to be endured.
As You Like It.

Your son,
As mad in folly, lack'd the sense to know
Her estimation hence.
All's Well that Ends Well.

Be this sweet Helen's knell;
He left a wife whose words all ears took captive,