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MONEY being the common scale
Of things by measure, weight, and tale,
In all the affairs of church and state,
'Tis both the balance and the weight;
Money is the sov'reign power,
That all mankind falls down before:
'Tis virtue, wit, and worth, and all
That men divine and sacred call;
For what's the worth of any thing,
But so much money as 't will bring?


See what money can do: that can change
Men's manners; alter their conditions!
How tempestuous the slaves are without it.
O, thou powerful metal! what authority
Is in thee! thou art the key of all men's
Mouths: with thee a man may lock up the jaws
Of an informer, and without thee, he
Cannot the lips of a lawyer.



BUT look! the moon in russet mantle clad,
Walks o'er the dew of yon high eastern hill.


The moon, whose orb

Through optic glass the Tuscan artist views
At evening, from the top of Fesolé
Or in Valdarno, to descry new lands,
Rivers, or mountains, in her spotty globe.


Day glimmer'd in the east, and the white moon Hung like a vapour in the cloudless sky. Rogers.

Plac'd in the spangled sky, with visage bright

The full-orb'd moon her radiant beams displays; But 'neath the vivid sun's more splendid rays, Sinks all her charms, and fades her lovely light. From the Portuguese of Camoens.

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EYES without feeling, feeling without sight;
Ears without hands or eyes, smelling sans all,
Or but a sickly part of one true sense,
Could not so mope.

The busy craftsman and o'erlaboured herd
Forget the travel of the day in sleep;
Care only wakes and moping pensiveness;
With meagre discontented looks they sit,
And watch the wasting of the midnight taper.


WHEN I did hear

The motley fool thus moral on the time,
My lungs began to crow like chanticleer,
That fools should be so deep contemplative.


Learn then what morals critics ought to shew,
'Tis not enough wit, art, and learning join,
In all you speak let truth and candour shine.

Their moral and economy,
Most perfectly they made agree.


Now brandished weapons glittering in their hands,
Mankind is broken loose from moral bands;
No rights of hospitality remain,
The guest by him who harbour'd him is slain.



And is there any moral shut

Within the bosom of the rose?


So, Lady Flora, take my lay,

And if you find no moral there,
Go look in any glass, and say,

What moral is in being fair.
Or, to what uses shall we put

The wild-weed flower that simply blows?




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SEE, the day begins to break,
And the light shoots like a streak
Of subtle fire; the wind blows cold,
While the morning doth unfold;
Now the birds begin to rouse,
And the squirrel from the boughs
Leaps, to get him nuts and fruit;
The early lark, that erst was mute,
Carols to the rising day
Many a note and many a lay.


Sweet is the breath of morn; her rising sweet,
With charm of earliest birds.


The morning lark, the messenger of day,
Saluted with her song the morning grey;
And soon the sun arose with beams so bright,
That all th' horizon laugh'd, to see the joyous sight.


The sun had long since, in the lap
Of Thetis, taken out his nap;
And, like a lobster boil'd, the morn
From black to red began to turn.


The morn is up again, the dewy morn,

With breath all incense, and with cheek all bloom, Laughing the clouds away with playful scorn, And living as if earth contain'd no tombAnd glowing into day.



The morning rose, in memorable pomp,
Glorious as e'er I had beheld-in front,
The sea lay laughing at a distance; near
The solid mountains shone, bright as the clouds,
Grain-tinctured, drenched in empyrean light;
And in the meadows and the lower grounds
Was all the sweetness of a common dawn-
Dews, vapours, and the melody of birds,
And labourers going forth to till the fields.


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Too curious man! why dost thou seek to know
Events, which, good or ill, foreknown, are woe?
Th' all-seeing power, that made thee mortal, gave
Thee every thing a mortal state should have.

Dryden. Great brains (like brightest glass) crack straight, while those

Of stone or wood hold out, and fear not blows;
And we their hoary heads can see,
Whose wit was never their mortality.


Bishop Earle.

I only have relinquished one delight,
To live beneath your more habitual sway.
I love the brooks which down their channels fret,
Ev'n more than when it rippl'd lightly as they;
The innocent brightness of a new-born day
Is lovely yet;

The clouds that gather round the setting sun,
Do take a sober colouring from the eye
That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality.

Go to the dull church-yard and see
Those hillocks of mortality,
Where proudest man is only found
By a small hillock on the ground.


Tixall Poetry.


THE breath no sooner left his father's body
But that his wildness, mortified in him,
Seemed to die too.


Mortified he was to that degree,

A poorer than himself he would not see.-Dryden.

Suppress thy knowing pride,

Mortify thy learned lust,

Vain are thy thoughts, while thou thyself art dust.'

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THE mother in her office holds the key of the soul. Old Play.

They tell us of an Indian tree,

Which, howsoe'er the sun and sky May tempt its boughs to wander free, And shoot and blossom wide and high. Far better loves to bend its arms

Downward again to that dear earth,
From which the life that fills and warms
Its grateful being first had birth.
'Tis thus, though woo'd by flattering friends,
And fed with fame (if fame it be,)
This heart, my own dear mother, bends,
With love's true instinct, back to thee.

My mother's voice! how oft doth creep
Its cadence on my lonely hours,
Like healing sent on wings of sleep,

Or dew on the unconscious flowers.
I might forget her melting prayer,

While pleasure's pulses madly fly; But in the still unbroken air,

Her gentle tones come stealing by; And years of sin and manhood flee, And leave me at my mother's knee.

N. P. Willis.

Sweet is the image of the brooding dove!-
Holy as heaven a mother's tender love!
The love of many prayers, and many tears,
Which changes not with dim declining years,
The only love, which on this teeming earth,
Asks no return for passion's wayward birth.


Mrs. Norton.

My mother! at that holy name

Within my bosom there's a gush
Of feeling, which no time can tame,
A feeling, which, for years of fame,
I would not, could not crush!

George P. Morris.

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