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So loving to my mother,

That he might not, beteem the winds of heaven,
Visit her face too roughly.



Most by the numbers judge a poet's song,
And smooth or rough with them is right or wrong.


A surly boatman, rough as seas and wind.


RUMOUR is a pipe

Blown by surmises, jealousies, conjectures;
And of so easy and so plain a stop,

That the blunt monster with uncounted heads,
The still discordant wavering multitude,

Can play upon it.


Rumour doth double, like the voice and echo,
The numbers of the feared.


Rumour is painted full of tongues I wis,
And they do know her well who thus depict her.
She is the sister unto babbling echo,
Their common parentage is empty sound;
Therefore give ear not unto flying rumour.

Old Play.

Rumour close by, as she plucked a reed
From a babbling brook, detained the throng;
With a hundred tongues, that never agreed,
She gave to the winds a mocking song.
The crowd with delight its echoes caught,

And closer around her yet they drew;
So wond'rous and wild the lore she taught,
They listened entranced the long day through.
Laman Blanchard.

Curse the tongue

Whence slanderous rumour, like the adder's drop, Distils her venom, withering friendship's faith, Turning love's favour.


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I DO love those ancient ruins:
We never tread upon them, but we set
Our foot upon some rev'rend history;
And questionless, here in this open court,
Which now lies naked to the injuries
Of stormy weather, some lie interr'd, who
Lov'd the church so well, and gave so largely to 't,
They thought it should have canopied their bones
Till doomsday: but all things have their end;
Churches and cities, which have diseases like to men,
Must have like death that we have.

What strange ruins

Since first we went to school, may we perceive
Walking in Thebes? Scars and bare weeds,
The gain o' th' martialist, who did propound
To his bold ends, honour, and golden ingots;
Which, though he won, he had not.


HER fallow leas

The darnel hemlock, and rank fumitory
Doth rest upon, while that the culter rusts
That shall deracinate such savagery.—Shakspere.

Idler, why lie down to die?
Better rub than rust;

Hark the lark sings in the sky,
Die, when die thou must;

Day is waking, leaves are shaking,
Better rub than rust.


He who will not work, shall want;
Nought for nought is just;

Won't do, must do, when he can't:
Better rub than rust;

Bees are flying, sloth is dying!
Better rub than rust.·

Ebenezer Elliott.



HAIL Sabbath! thee I hail, the poor man's day:
On other days the man of toil is doom'd
To eat his joyless bread, lonely-the ground
Both seat and board-screen'd from the winter's cold
And summer's heat, by neighbouring hedge or tree;
But on this day, embosom'd in his home,
He shares the frugal meal with those he loves.



Poor sons of toil! oh, grudge them not the breeze
That plays with sabbath flowers; the clouds that play
With sabbath winds; the hum of sabbath bees;
The sabbath walk; the sky-lark's sabbath lay;
The silent sunshine of the sabbath-day.-Leigh Hunt.

Sabbaths, like way-marks, cheer the pilgrim's path,
His progress mark, and keep his rest in view.
In life's bleak winter, they are pleasant days,
Short foretastes of the long-long spring to come.
To every new-born soul each hallowed morn
Seems like the first, when everything was new.
Time seems an angel come afresh from heaven;
His pinions shedding fragrance as he flies,
And his bright hour-glass running sands of gold.
Charles Wilcox.

Fresh glides the brook and blows the gale,
Yet yonder halts the quiet mill;

The whirring wheel, the rushing sail,
How motionless and still!

Six days stern labour shuts the poor

From nature's careless banquet-hall;
The seventh, an Angel opes the door,
And, smiling, welcomes all!

Each sabbath is a little pause
Between the world and me,
My selfish troubles it suspends,

It makes my soul more free.
Each sabbath then, I turn aside

O world! from thy pursuits;
'Tis sacred to the eternal cause,
And sacred be its fruits.






BUT when men think they most in safety stand,
The greatest peril often is at hand.


After distress at sea, the dangers o'er,
Safety and welcomes better taste on shore.
Happy were men, if they but understood
There is no safety but in doing good.




HARK to the sailors' shouts the rocks rebound,
Thundering in echoes to the joyful sound!
Long have they voyaged o'er the distant seas,
And what a heart-delight they feel at last,
So many toils so many dangers past,
To view the port descried, he only knows
Who in the stormy deep for many a day
Hath tost, aweary of the ocean way,
And watched all anxious every wind that blows.

I love the sailor;-his eventful life-

His generous spirit-his contempt of dangerHis firmness in the gale, the wreck, and strife;— And though a wild and reckless ocean-ranger, God grant he make that port, when life is o'er, Where storms are hush'd, and billows break no more! Walter Colton.

Who was the first sailor? tell me who can;
Old father Neptune? no, you are wrong.
There was another ere Neptune began;

Who was he? tell me! Tightly and strong
Over the waters he went, he went,
Over the waters he went.

Ha! 't is nought but the poor little nautilus-
Sailing away in his ancient shell;

He has no need of a compass like us,
Foul or fair weather he manages well!
Over the water he goes, he goes,
Over the water he goes!

Mary Howitt.



THEN thus I cloath my naked villainy
With old odd ends, stol'n forth of holy writ,
And seem a saint, when most I play the devil.


My trade is a fine easy gainful cheat,
How easy 'tis saintship to counterfeit,
And pleasing fables to invent and spread,
And fools ne'er find the cheat till they are dead.


So unaffected, so composed a mind;
So firm, yet soft; so strong, yet so resign'd;
Heaven, as its purest gold, by tortures tried,
The saint sustained it, but the woman died. Pope.

Of all prides since Lucifer's attaint, The proudest swells a self-elected saint.


Thos. Hood.


THEY satiate, and soon fill,

Though pleasant; but thy words with grace divine Imbued, brings to their sweetness no satiety.


The ear is cloy'd

Unto satiety with honied strains,
That daily from the fount of Helicon
Flow murmuring.

The joy unequalled, if its end it gain,
Without satiety, though e'er so blest.



Childe Harold bask'd him in the noontide sun,
Disporting there like any other fly;
Nor deem'd, before his little day was done,
One blast might chill him into misery.
But long ere scarce a third of his pass'd by,
Worse than adversity the Childe befel:
He felt the fulness of satiety.


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