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The tyrannous and bloody act is done;
The most arch deed of piteous massacre
That ever yet this land was guilty of.

Slaughter grows murder when it goes too far,
And makes a massacre what was a war. Dryden.

Of whom such massacre
Make they, but of their brethren, men of men?


But now I was the lord
Of this fair mansion, master of my servants,
Queen o'er myself; and even now, but now
This house, these servants, and this same myself,
Are yours, my lord.


Pope. .

O thou, my friend, my genius, come along,
Thou master of the poet and the song.
E'en to the dullest peasant standing by,
Who fasten'd still on him a wandering eye
He seem'd the master spirit of the land.

Joanna Baillie.

I THAT am frail flesh, and earthly wight,
Unworthy match for such immortal mate.

Damon, behold yon breaking purple cloud:
Hear’st thou not hymns and songs divinely loud?
There mounts Amyntus, there young cherubs play
About their godlike mate, and sing him on the way.

Dryden. There swims no goose so grey, but, soon or late, She finds some honest gander for a mate. Pope.





MEANING THESE lost their sense their learning to display, And those explained the meaning quite away.-Pope.

A work, or thought, Is what each makes it to himself, and may Be full of great dark meanings like the sea, With shoals of life rushing; or like the air, Benighted with the wing of the wild dove, Sweeping miles broad o'er the far western woods, With mighty glimpses of the central light,Or may be nothing,-bodiless, spiritless.

P. J. Bailey.

MEANNESS. Can you imagine I so mean would prove, To save my life by changing of my love? Dryden. Prodigality hath a sister Meanness, his fixed antagonist

heart-fellow; Who often outliveth the short career of the brother

she despiseth: She hath lean lips and a sharp look, and her eyes are

red and hungry; But he sloucheth in his gait, and his mouth speaketh

loosely and maudlin. Martin F. Tupper.


STRONG was their plot,
Their parties great, means good, the season fit,
Their practice close, their faith suspected not.

He that intends well, yet deprives himself
of means to put his good thoughts into deeds,
Deceives his purpose of the due reward.

Beaumont and Fletcher, any great designs thou dost intend, Think on the means, the manner, and the end.








MECHANIC slaves,
With greasy aprons, rules, and hammers, shall
Uplift us to the view.


To make a god, a hero, or a king,
Descend a mechanic dialect.



THERE among
These sat a man of ripe and perfect age,
Who did them meditate all his life long.


Who readeth much and never meditates,

Is like a greedy eater of much food,
Who so surcloys his stomach with his cates,
That commonly they do him little good.

'Tis most true
That musing meditation most affects

The pensive secrecy of desert cell. Milton. Thy thoughts to nobler meditation give, And study how to die, not how to live.


Her bonny face it was as meek

As ony lamb upon a lea;
The evening sun was ne'er sae sweet,

As was the blink o' Phemie's e'e.


With a spirit as meek, as the gentlest of those Who in life's sunny valley lie sheltered and warm.

Moore. Not all the pomp and pageantry of worlds, Reflect such glory on the eye supreme, As the meek virtues of one holy man.

R. Montgomery.





I SWEAR By the simplicity of Venus' doves! By that which knitteth souls, and prospers loves! In the same place thou hast appointed me, To-morrow truly will I meet with thee. Shakspere. The joy of meeting pays the pangs of absence; Else who could bear it?


When lovers meet in adverse hour,
'Tis like a sun-glimpse through a shower;
A watery ray an instant seen,

Then darkly closing clouds between. Scott. As letters some hand has invisibly trac'd,

When held to the flame, will steal out to the sight; So, many a feeling that long seem'd effac’d, The warmth of a meeting like this brings to light.


HENCE all your vain delights;
As short as are the nights

Wherein you spend your folly;
There's nought in this life sweet,
If man were wise to see 't,
But only melancholy.

Sits on me as a cloud along the sky,
Which will not let the sunbeams through, nor yet
Descend in rain, and end; but spreads itself
'Twixt heav'n and earth, like envy between man
And man--and is an everlasting mist. Byron.
Go, you may call it madness—folly-

You shall not chase my gloom away; There's such a charm in melancholy,

I would not, if I could, be gay! Rogers.

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Let not a death, unwept, unhonour'd, be
The melancholy fate allotted me!
But those who love me living, when I die,
Still fondly keep some cherish'd memory.

From Solon.
Fell star of fate! thou never can’st employ
A torment teeming with severer smart,
Than that which memory pours upon the heart,
While clinging round the sepulchre of joy.

Camoens. O memory! thou fond deceiver,

Still importunate and vain,
To former joys recurring ever,

And turning all the past to pain:
Thou, like the world, th' oppress'd oppressing,

Thy smiles increase the wretch's woe!
And he who wants each other blessing,
In thee must ever find a foe.

She was a form of life and light,
That soon became a part of sight;
And rose whene'er I turned my eye;
The morning star of memory.

Byron. Ah me! how oft will fancy's spells, in slumber,

Recall my native country to my mind; How oft regret will bid me sadly number

Each lost delight, and dear friend left behind!


Dreams of the land where all my wishes centre,

Those scenes which I am doom'd no more to know, Full oft shall memory trace—my soul's tormentorAnd turn each pleasure past to present woe.

Mat. G. Lewis. Hail, Memory, hail! in thy exhaustless mine, From age to age unnumbered treasures shine! Thought and her shadowy brood thy call obey, And place and time are subject to thy sway; Thy pleasures most we feel, when most alone; The only pleasures we can call our own. Rogers.

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