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MILDNESS. MILITIA. MIMIC.
IN war, was never lion's rage so fierce;
In peace, was never gentle lamb more mild.
As the leaf doth beautify the tree,
The pleasant flowers bedeck the painted spring,
Even so in men, of greater reach and power,
A mild and piteous thought augments renown.
The same majestic mildness held its place,
Nor lost the monarch, in the dying face.
UNNUMBERED spirits round thee fly,
The light militia of the lower sky.
His probity and mildness shows
His care of friends, and scorn of foes. Addison.
As when the trumpet sounds, the o'erloaded state
Discharges all her poor and profligate;
Crimes of all kinds dishonour'd weapons wield,
And prisons pour their filth into the field;
Thus nature's refuse, and the dregs of men,
Compose the black militia of the
IN reason's absence mimic fancy wakes
To imitate her: but misjoining shapes,
Wild work produces oft, and most in dreams.
The busy head with mimic art runs o'er
The scenes and actions of the day before.
Who would with care some happy fiction frame,
So mimics truth, it looks the very same.
ALL things received do such proportion take,
As those things have wherein they are received;
So little glasses little faces make,
And narrow webs on narrow frames are weaved. Then what vast body must we make the mind, Wherein are men, beasts, trees, towns, seas, and lands;
And yet each thing a proper place doth find,
And each thing in the true proportion stands.
Sir John Davies.
His sweetest mind,
'Twixt mildness tempered and low courtesy, Could leave as soon to be as not be kind;
Churlish despite ne'er looked from his calm eye, Much less commanded in his gentle heart, To baser men fair looks he would impart; Nor could he cloak ill thoughts in complimental art. Phineas Fletcher.
Our better mind
Is as a Sunday garment, then put on
When we have nought to do, but at our work
We wear a worse for thrift.
The hand of time alone disarms
Her face of its superfluous charms,
But adds for every grace resign'd
A thousand to adorn her mind.
The immortal mind superior to its fate,
Amid the outrage of external things,
Firm as the solid base of this great world,
Rests on its own foundation.
Hard task, vain hope, to analyze the mind,
If each most obvious and particular thought,
Not in a mystical and idle sense,
But in the words of reason deeply weighed,
Hath no beginning.
The mind doth shape itself to its own wants,
And can bear all things.
Let God revenge; for I may never lift
An angry arm against his ministers.
Can'st thou not minister to a mind diseased;
Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow;
Kaze out the written troubles of the brain?
This temple to frequent With ministeries due and solemn rites.
THE old grey minsters! how they rear their heads
Amid the green vales of our fertile land,
Telling of bygone years and things that were;-
Those glorious piles, that seem to mock at time,
To God's most holy service dedicate,
Enriched with sculptures rare, and effigies,
That with clasped hands seem ever mutely praying-
Dumb intercessors for us sinful men;
Here, as to shame the temples deck'd
By skill of earthly architect,
Nature herself, it seem'd, would raise
A minster to her Maker's praise!
Not for a meaner use ascend
Her columns, or her arches bend;
Nor for a theme less solemn tells
And with their solemn bells, that send afar
The tidings of great joy, and bid us leave
The turmoil and the strife of busy life,
And worship, as we should, the living God.
That mighty surge that ebbs and swells,
And still, between each awful pause,
From the high vault an answer draws,
That Nature's voice might seem to say
"Well hast thou done, frail child of clay!
Thy humble powers that stately shrine
Task'd high and hard-but witness mine!"
HARK how the minstreles gin to shriek aloud
Their merry music that resounds from far,
The pipe, the tabor, and the trembling crowd,
That well agree withouten breach or jar!
I to the vulgar am become a jest,
Esteemed as a minstrel at a feast.
The way was long, the wind was cold,
The minstrel was infirm and old;
His withered cheek and tresses grey
Seemed to have known a better day:
The harp, his sole remaining joy,
Was carried by an orphan boy.
The last of all the bards was he,
Who sang of border chivalry;
For well-a day their date was fled,
His tuneful brethren all were dead,
And he, neglected and oppressed,
Wished to be with them and at rest.
INCESSANT minutes, whilst you move, you tell
The time that tells our life, which though it run
Never so fast or far, your new-begun
Short steps shall overtake; for though life well
May 'scape his own account, it shall not yours.
You are death's auditors, that both decide
And sum whate'er that life inspir'd endures,
Past a beginning; and through you we bide
The doom of fate, whose unrecall'd decree
You date, bring, execute; making what's new,
Ill; and good, old; for as we die in you,
You die in time, time in eternity.
Lord Herbert, to his Watch.
The speed of gods Time counts not, though with swiftest minutes winged.
MIRROR. MISANTHROPY. MISCHIEF.
To hold, as 't were, the mirror up to nature,
To show virtue her feature, scorn her own image,
And the very age and body of the time
His form and pressure.
That Power which gave me eyes the world to view,
To view myself infused an inward light,
Whereby my soul, as by a mirror true,
Of her own form may take a perfect sight.
Late as I ranged the crystal wilds of air
In the clear mirror of thy ruling star,
I saw, alas! some dread event impend.
I AM Misanthropos, and hate mankind.
Alas, poor dean! his only scope
Was to be held a misanthrope;
This into general odium drew him.
O mischief! thou art swift
To enter in the thoughts of desperate men!
He that may hinder mischief,
And yet permits it, is an accessary.
Misanthropy, with visage sour, that sat
And looked askance upon the ways of men, As might a wounded bear from out his den; Longing to eat those he was looking at.
Mischief that may be help'd, is hard to know;
And danger going on still multiplies:
Where harm hath many wings, care arms too late.