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Oh, sunny Love!
Breath like the Indian clove,
Oh, sunny Love!
Oh, fatal Love!
With gloomy cypress wove,
Oh, fatal Love! Frances A. Butler.
Who says he loves and is not wretched, lies;
P. J. Bailey.
LOVELINESS. Who hath not prov'd how feebly words essay To fix one spark of beauty's heavenly ray? Who doth not feel, until his failing sight Faints into dimness with its own delight, His changing cheek, his sinking heart confess The might, the majesty of loveliness. Byron.
Words cannot paint thee, gentlest cynosure
Of all things lovely, in that loveliest form Souls wear the youth of woman! brows as pure
As Memphian skies that never knew a storm; Lips with such sweetness in their honied deeps As fills the rose in which a fairy sleeps.
But I need not tell you this,
The spell of loveliness. J. G. Whittier.
Shakspere. The merlin cannot ever soar on high,
Nor greedy greyhound still pursue the chase:
And fearful hare to run a quiet race.
Yet God did turn his fate upon his foe.
go. We trample grass, and prize the flowers of May; Yet grass is green, when flowers do fade away.
That lowliness of heart, the highest sense
Shelley, from Goethe.
A lowly lot is mine;
If thou would'st make it thine.-
And share that lot with me,
LOYALTY. WE, too, are friends to loyalty; we love The King who loves the law, respects his bounds, And reigns content within them.
LUCK. GLAD of such luck, the luckless, lucky maid A long time with the savage people staid To gather breath in many miseries. Spenser. Farewell, good luck go with thee! Shakspere. He forced his neck into a noose, To show his play at fast and loose; And when he chanced t’ escape, mistook For art and subtlety, his luck.
ONE son at home
their end, And are, like lumber, to be left and scorn'd.
But Lust's effect is tempest after sun;
Lust's winter comes ere summer half be done;
Shakspere. Though I look old, yet I am strong and lusty: For in my youth I never did apply Hot and rebellious liquors in my blood.—Shakspere.
But when Lust...... Lets in defilement to the inward parts, The soul grows clotted by contagion, Imbodies and imbrutes, till she quite lose The divine property of her first being. Milton. Lust is, of all the frailties of our nature, What most we ought to fear; the headstrong beast Rushes along, impatient of the course; Nor hears the rider's call, nor feels the rein.-Rowe.
Howes, from Persius.
O luxury! thou curs’d by heaven's decree,
Tus is mere madness;
Lay not that flattering unction to your soul,