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LOOK.
Trust not the treason of those smiling looks,

Until you have their guileful trains well tried,
For they are like but unto golden hooks,
That from the foolish fish their baits do hide.

Spenser, Her looks were like beams of the morning sun,

Forth-looking through the windows of the east,
When first the fleecie cattle have begun
Upon the pearled grass to make their feast.

Spenser.
Looks kill love, and love by looks reviveth:
A smile recures the wounding of a frown,
But blessed bankrupt, that by love so thriveth.

Shakspere, He has, I know not what, Of greatness in his looks, and of high fate That almost awes me.

Dryden.

'Tis not the lily brow I prize,
Nor roseate cheeks, nor sunny eyes,

Enough of lilies and of roses !
A thousand-fold more dear to me

The look that gentle love discloses,-
That look which love alone can see.-Coleridge.

Oh! there are looks and tones that dart
An instant sunshine through the heart;
As if the soul that minute caught
Some treasure it through life had sought.

T. Moore.
Thy mild looks are all eloquent,

Thy bright ones free and glad;
Like glances from a Pleiad sent,

Thy sad ones sweetly sad. Robert Morris.

Oh, there are looks that kill like lightning flashes; And there are looks like sunbeams warm and cheery.

Anon.

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LORD.
Thou art a lord, and nothing but a lord.

Shakspere.
What is a lord? doth that plain, simple word
Contain some magic spell? as soon as heard,
Like an alarum bell on. night's dull ear,
Doth it strike louder and more strong appear
Than other words! whether we will or no,
Thro' reason's court, doth it unquestion’d go,
Ev'n on the mention, and of course transmit
Notions of something excellent, of wit
Pleasing, tho’ keen, of humour free, tho'chaste,
Of sterling sense, and with sound judgment grac'd.
Of virtue, far above temptation's reach,
And honour, which no malice can impeach?

Nature exclaim'd with wonder-lords are things,
Which, never made by me, were made by kings.

Churchill.

LOSS.

Loss of Eden, till one greater man Restore it, and regain.

Milton.
Though losses and crosses

Be lessons right severe,
There's wit there ye'll get there,
Ye'll find nae other where.

Burns
“I have lost a day,” said Titus, "for this day
To none have I done good.” Oh! rather say,
The day this noble sentiment had birth
Shines out transcendant with enduring worth;
Small the material, good thou could'st achieve -
Transient and limited; but time shall leave
These words a living lesson, potent still,
To sway towards generous deeds the human will,
When he hath strip’t of power Imperial Rome,
And crumbled into dust her proudest dome.

H. W.

LOT.

LOTTERY.

LOUD.

411

LOT.
PLEAS'D with each other's lot, our own we hate.

Burton. Once in the flight of ages past,

There lived a man;-and who was he - Mortal! howe'er thy lot be cast,

That man resembled thee. Unknown the region of his birth,

The land in which he died unknown;
His name has perished from the earth,

This truth survives alone: -
That joy and grief, and hope and fear,

Alternate triumphed in his breast;
His bliss and woe—a smile, a tear!
Oblivion hides the rest.

J. Montgomery.

LOTTERY.
FORTUNE, that with malicious joy,
Does man, her slave, oppress,
Still various, and unconstant still,
Promotes, degrades, delights in strife,
And makes a lottery of life.

Dryden, from Horace.
I who have looked on the revolving wheel
Of life's great lottery, fearing not the blanks
That fortune might turn up for me, am not
Like to be o'er-elated at this prize. Old Play.

LOUD.
The numbers soft and clear,
Gently stole upon the ear;
Now louder and yet louder rise,

And fill with spreading sounds the skies.--Pope.
The soldier that philosopher well blamed,
Who long and loudly in the schools declaimed.

Denham.

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LOVE.
The god of Love—ah benedicite!
How mighty and how great a lord is he!
For he of low hearts can make high, if high,
He can make low, and unto death bring nigh;
And hard hearts he can make kind and free.

Chaucer, modernized by Wordsworth.
Love's a mighty lord,
And hath so humbled me, as, I confess,
There is no woe to his correction,
Nor to his service, no. such joy on earth!
Now, no discourse, except it be of love;
Now can I break my fast, dine, sup, and sleep,
Upon the very naked name of love. Shakspere.

-To love,
It is to be all made of sighs and tears;
It is to be all made of faith and service;
It is to be all made of fantasy.
All made of passion, and all made of wishes;
All adoration, duty, and observance;
All humbleness, patience, and impatience;
All purity, all trial.

Shakspere.

True gentle Love is like the summer dew,

Which falls around when all is still and hush; And falls unseen until the bright drops strew

With odours, herb and flower, and bank and bush. O Love—when womanhood is in the flush,

And man's a young and an unspotted thing, His first breathed word, and her half-conscious blush, Are fair as light in heaven, or flowers in spring.

Allan Cunningham. Long-waiting love doth entrance find Into the slow-believing mind. Sydney Godolphin.

Has thy uncertain bosom ever strove
With the first tumults of a real love?
Hast thou now dreaded, and now blessed his sway,
By turns averse and joyful to obey?

Prior.

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Who love enjoys, and placed hath his mind

Where fairest virtues fairest beauties grace, Then to himself such store of worth doth find, That he deserves to find so good a place.

Drummond. All tastes, all pleasures, all delights,

That animate this mortal frame, All are but ministers of Love, And tend to feed his flame.

Coleridge.

In peace, Love tunes the shepherd's reed,
In war, he mounts the warrior's steed;
In halls, in gay attire is seen,
In hamlets, dances on the green.
Love rules the court, the camp, the grove,
And man below, and saints above;
For love is heaven, and heaven is love!

Scott.

Love is a plant of holier birth,
Than any that takes its root on earth;
A flower from heaven, which ’t is a crime
To number with the things of time;
Hope in the bud is often blasted,
And beauty on the desert wasted;
And joy, a primrose early gay,
Care's lightest footfall treads away.
But Love shall live, and live for ever,
And chance and change shall reach it never.

Henry Neele. Love?-I will tell thee what it is to love!

It is to build with human thoughts a shrine, Where hope sits brooding like a beauteous dove;

Where time seems young, and life a thing divine.

All tastes, all pleasures, all desires combine To consecrate this sanctuary of bliss;

Above the stars in shroudless beauty shine; Around the streams their flowery margins kiss; And if there's heaven on earth, that heaven is surely this.

Charles Su in.

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