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RICHES, the dumb god, that givest all men tongues,
That canst do nought, yet mak'st men do all things,
The price of souls! even hell, with thee to boot,
Is made worth heav'n! Thou art virtue, fame,
Honour, and all things else; who can get thee,
He shall be noble, valiant, honest, wise.-Ben Jonson.

I am as rich in having such a jewel,
As twenty seas, if all their sands were pearl.


Riches cannot rescue from the grave,
Which claims alike the monarch and the slave.

Extol not riches then, the toil of fools,
The wise man's cumbrance, if not snare,
To slacken virtue, and abate her edge more apt,
Than prompt her to do ought may merit praise.



Riches, like insects, while concealed they lie,
Wait but for wings, and in their season fly;
To whom can riches give repute and trust,
Content or pleasure, but the good and just?
Judges and senates have been bought for gold,
Esteem and love were never to be sold. Pope.

Madam, I own 't is not your person
My stomach's set so sharp and fierce on;
But 't is your better part-your riches,
That my enamoured heart bewitches.

Riches, the wisest monarch sings,

Make pinions for themselves to fly;
They fly like bats on parchment wings,
And geese their silver plumes supply.

A man he was to all the country dear,
And passing rich on forty pounds a year;
His best companions innocence and health,
And his best riches ignorance of wealth.




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ALL who enter in this world a faded picture with them bear,

And go searching in the tavern if the interpreter be there;

In it written lies the riddle, but its marks are all unknown,

And oh! whither is the partner of the hidden secret flown. Hafiz, from the Persian.


Let's keep them
In desperate hope of understanding us;
Riddles and clouds are very lights of speech.
I'll veil my careless anxious thoughts as 't were
In a perspicuous cloud, that so I may
Whisper in a loud voice, and even be silent
When I do utter words.



PRINCES can never more make known their wisdom
Than when they cherish goodness where they find it,
They being men, and not gods,-

They can give wealth and titles, but no virtue;
That is without their power, when they advance,
Not out of judgment, but deceiving fancy,
An undeserving man, howe'er set off

With all the trim greatness, state, and pow'r,
And of a creature even grown terrible
To him from whom he took his giant form,
The thing is still a comet, no true star;
And when the bounties feeding his false fire
Begin to fail, will of itself go out,
And what was dreadful, proves ridiculous.


Should once the world resolve t'abolish
All that's ridiculous and foolish,
It would have nothing left to do,
T'apply in jest or earnest to;
No bus'ness of importance, play,
Or state, to pass its time away.






ESTABLISHED violence and lawless might,
Avowed and hallowed by the name of right.
Rowe, from Lucan.

All nature is but art, unknown to thee,
All chance, direction, which thou canst not see,
All discord, harmony not understood,
All partial evil, universal good;

And, spite of pride-in erring reason's spite,
One thing is clear-whatever is, is right.


The rights of women,—what are they?
The right to labour and to pray;
The right to watch whilst others sleep;
The right o'er others' woes to weep;
The right to succour in reverse;
The right to bless whilst others curse;
The right to love whom others scorn;
The right to comfort all that mourn;
The right to shed new joy on earth;
The right to feel the soul's high worth;
The right to lead the soul to God
Along the path her Saviour trod-
The path of meekness and of love,
The path of faith that leads above,
The path of patience and of wrong,
The path in which the weak grow strong.
Such woman's rights and God will bless
And crown their champion with success. Mrs. Little.


ATHENS did righteously decide

When Phocian and when Socrates were tried;
As righteously they did their dooms repent,
Still they were wise whatever way they went.


The righteous die: their deeds of love
Track their bright course to realms above;
Earth's flowers in fadeless glory shine,
And angel-hands the wreath entwine.-W. J. Brock.



HE is not dead, that sometime had a fall,
The sun returns, that hid was under cloud,
And when fortune hath spit out all her gall,
I trust, good luck to me shall be allowed:
For I have seen a ship in haven fall,

After that storm hath broke both mast and shroud:
The willow eke, that stoopeth with the wind,
Doth rise again, and greater wood doth bind.
Sir Thos. Wyatt.

If on the sudden he begin to rise,
No man that lives can count his enemies.


Who would rely upon the faith of nations!
They leave you thankless when their work is done;
The people, like the women, pour libations,
Only in honour of the rising sun.

Shelley, from Goethe.

Of all the torments, all the cares,
With which our lives are curst;
Of all the plagues a lover bears,

Sure rivals are the worst.


BASE rivals, who true wit and merit hate,
Caballing still against it with the great,
Maliciously aspire to gain renown,

By standing up, and pulling others down. Dryden.

By partners in each other kind,
Afflictions easier grow;

In love alone we hate to find
Companions of our woe.


How great soe'er your rigours are,
With them alone I'll cope;

I can endure my own despair,
But not another's hope.





SEE the rivers-how they run

Through woods and meads, in shade and sun,
Sometimes swift, sometimes slow,
Wave succeeding wave, they go
A various journey to the deep,
Like human life, to endless sleep.

So blue yon winding river flows,
It seems an outlet from the sky,
Where waiting till the west wind blows,

The freighted clouds at anchor lie.-Longfellow.

River! O, river! thou roamest free,
From the mountain height to the fresh blue sea!
Free thyself, but with silver chain,
Linking each charm of land and main.
River! O, river! upon thy tide
Full many a freighted bark doth ride;
Would that thou thus could'st bear away
The thoughts that burden my weary day!

C. F. Hoffman.


WHAT resounds

Of fable or romance of Uther's son.


Romance, who loves to nod and sing
With drowsy head, and folded wing,
Among the green leaves as they shake
Far down within some shadowy brake.

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Edgar A. Poe. The gorgeous pageantry of times gone by,The tilt, the tournament, the vaulted hall,Fades in its glory on the spirit's eye,

And fancy's bright and gay creation-all Sink into dust, when reason's searching glance Unmasks the age of knighthood and romance.

S. L. Fairfield.

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