Слике страница



Love comforteth like sunshine after rain,
But Lust's effect is tempest after sun;
Love's gentle spring doth always fresh remain,
Lust's winter comes ere summer half be done;
Love surfeits not-Lust, like a glutton dies;
Love is all truth-Lust full of foulest lies.



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.


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.


WHEN lo! persuasive Luxury draws near,
And, beckoning, softly whispers in your ear;-
What are you seeking, madman! do you know?
Why all this hurry? whither would you go?
To revelry and mirth each moment give;
For not to live with me, is not to live.

Howes, from Persius.

War destroys man, but luxury, mankind-
At once corrupts the body and the mind. Crown.

O luxury! thou curs'd by heaven's decree,
How ill-exchang'd are things like these for thee?
How do thy potions, with insidious joy,
Diffuse their pleasures only to destroy!






THIS is mere madness;

And thus awhile the fit will work on him:
When that the golden couplets are disclos'd,
His silence will sit drooping.


Lay not that flattering unction to your soul,
That not your trespass, but my madness speaks:
It will but skin and film the ulcerous place:
Whiles rank corruption, mining all within,
Infects unseen.

There is a pleasure in being mad,
Which none but madmen know.




WITH deadly hue an armed corse did lie,
In whose dread face he read great magnanimity.

They had enough revenged, having reduced
Their foe to misery beneath their feas;
The rest was magnanimity to remit,
If some convenient reason was proposed.

To give a kingdom hath been thought
Greater and nobler done, and to lay down
Far more magnanimous than to assume.


A PRINCE is never so magnificent, As when he's sparing to enrich a few With the injuries of many.



Not Babylon,
Nor great Alcario, such magnificence
Equalled in all their glories, to enshrine
Belus or Serapis their gods, or seat
Their kings, when Egypt and Assyria strove
In wealth and luxury.




[blocks in formation]
[ocr errors]



When thou dost pinch thy bearer, thou dost sit
Like a rich armour worn in heat of day,
That scalds with safety.


He had a man-like look, and sparkling eye,
A front whereon sate such a majesty
As aw'd all his beholders; his long hair,
After the Grecian fashion, without care
Hung loosely on his shoulders, black as jet,
And shining with his oily honour'd sweat;
His body straight, and well-proportion'd, tall,
Well limb'd, well set, long arm'd;-one hardly shall
Among a thousand find one in all points
So well compact, and sinew'd in his joints.
But that which crown'd the rest, he had a tongue
Whose sweetness toil'd unwillingness along,
And drew attention from the dullest ear,
His words so oily, smooth, and winning were.


True Majesty's the very soul of kings;
And rectitude's the soul of Majesty:
If mining minions sap that rectitude,
The king may live, but majesty expires;
And he that lessens majesty, impairs
That just obedience public good requires;
Doubly a traitor, to the crown and state.


MALICE scorn'd, puts out

Itself; but argued, gives a kind of credit
To a false accusation.


My rage is not malicious; like a spark
Of fire by steel inforced out of a flint,
It is no sooner kindled, but extinct.


He who would free from malice pass his days
Must live obscure and never merit praise.








AND fast by him pale malady was placed;
Sore sick in bed, her colour all foregone;
Bereft of stomach, savour, and of taste.
Ne could she brook no meat but broths alone;
Her breath corrupt; her keepers every one
Abhorring her; her sickness past recure,
Detesting physic, and all physic's cure.


A malady

Preys on my heart that medicine cannot reach,
Invisible and cureless.



MAMMON's close-linked bonds have bound him,
Self-imprisoned and seldom burst;
Though heaven's waters gushed around him,
He would pine with earth's poor thirst.

Mrs. S. J. Hale.

There went this saying through the crowded mart,
"Let's build a temple for the golden god,
He that hath power to scourge the human heart,
And torture it as with a scorpion_rod:
And let us make an image of a clod,
And overlay it all with gilding bright,

And let our sweat and blood bedew the sod,
That we may worship it both day and night,
Sing praises to its name, and glorify its might."
And so they built a temple high and strong,
A mighty structure, vast in its extent;
And there they laboured earnestly and long,
A form to fashion, that might represent
Mammon, their Deity: 't was done; they bent
In adoration to this thing of clay;

To every quarter of the globe they sent To summon worshippers, and day by day

More dense became the crowd that there did homage





MEN, like butterflies,

Shew not their mealy wings but to the summer;
And not a man, for being simply man,
Hath any honour; but honour for those honours
That are without him, as place, riches, favour,
Prizes of accident as oft as merit;

Which when they fall, as being slippery standers,
The love that lean'd on them is slippery too,
Do one pluck down another, and together
Die in the fall.


Man is a name of honour for a king;
Additions take away from each chief thing.


Know then thyself, presume not God to scan,
The proper study of mankind is man.

Like to the falling of a star,
Or as the flights of eagles are ;
Or like the fresh spring's gaudy hue,
Or silver drops of morning dew;
Or like a wind that chafes the flood,
Or bubbles which on water stood;
Ev'n such is man, whose borrow'd light
Is straight call'd in, and paid to-night.
The wind blows out, the bubble dies,
The spring entomb'd in autumn lies;
The dew dries up, the star is shot,
The flight is past, and man forgot.


How poor, how rich, how abject, how august,
How complicate, how wonderful is man!
How passing wonder He who made him such!

Dr. H. King.


What tho' on hamely fare we dine,
Wear hodden grey, and a' that?

Gie fools their silk, and knaves their wine,
The man's a man for a' that.



« ПретходнаНастави »