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A MAD-CAP ruffian, and a swearing jack,
That thinks with oaths to face the matter out.

Take not His name, who made thy mouth, in vain;
It gets thee nothing, and hath no excuse.
Lust and wine plead a pleasure: avarice, gain:
But the cheap swearer through his open sluice

Lets his soul run for nought, as little fearing.
Were I an epicure, I could 'bate swearing.
G. Herbert.

Maintain your rank, vulgarity despise,
To swear is neither brave, polite, nor wise;
You would not swear upon a bed of death-
Reflect-your Maker now may stop your breath.


THE summer's flower is to the summer sweet,
Though to itself it only live or die;
But if that flow'r with base infection meet,
The basest weed outbraves his dignity;
For sweetest things turn sourest by their deeds;
Lilies that fester, smell far worse than weeds.

Things sweet to taste prove in digestion sour.

Have you seen but a bright lily grow
Before rude hands have touch'd it?
Have you mark'd but the fall of the snow
Before the soil hath smutch'd it?

Have you felt the wool of the beaver,
Or swan's down ever?

Or have smell'd of the bud o'the briar?
Or the nard in the fire?




Or have tasted the bag of the bee?

O so white! O so soft! O so sweet is she!

Ben Jonson.

Your words are like the notes of dying swans-
Too sweet to last.





I Go, I go, look how I go;

Swifter than arrow from the Tartar's bow.



The old Scythians

Painted blind fortune's powerful hands with wings,
To show her gifts come swift and suddenly,
Which if her favourite be not swift to take,
He loses them for ever. Then be wise;
Stay but awhile here, and I'll send to thee.



I SAW him beat the surges under him,
And ride upon their backs; he trod the waves,
Whose enmity he flung aside, and breasted
The surge most swollen that met him.


With a swimmer's stroke Flinging the billows back from my drenched hair, And laughing from my lip the audacious brine, Which kissed it like a wine-cup, rising o'er The waves as they arose, and prouder still The loftier they uplifted me.



CAN a king give thee more than is his own?
Know, a king's dignity is public wealth;
On that subsists the nation's fame and power.
Shall falling sycophants, to plump themselves,
Eat up their master, and dethrone his glory?
What are such wretches? What but vapours foul,
From fens and bogs, by royal beams exhal'd,
That radiance intercepting, which should cheer
The land at large? Hence subjects' hearts grow cold:
And frozen loyalty forgets to flow:

But then 't is slipp'ry standing for the minion:
Stains on his ermine, to their royal master
Such miscreants are; not jewels in his crown.


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IN their non-age

A sympathy unusual join'd their loves;
They pair'd like turtles, still together drank,
Together sat, nor quarrell'd for the choice:
Like twining streams both from one fountain fell,
And as they ran still mingled smiles and tears:
But oh, when time had swell'd their currents high,
This boundless world, this ocean, did divide them,
And now for ever they have lost each other.

Nat. Lee.

Nor is crown wisdom any quintessence
Of abstract truth, or art of government,
More than sweet sympathy, or counterpease
Of humours, temper'd happily to please.

Lord Brooke.


Kindness by secret sympathy is tied, For noble souls in nature are allied. There's nought in this bad world like sympathy; 'Tis so becoming to the soul and faceSets to soft music the harmonious sigh,

And robes sweet friendship in a Brussels lace.


Oh! ask not, hope not thou too much
Of sympathy below:

Few are the hearts whence one same touch
Bids the same fountain flow:

Few-and by still conflicting powers
Forbidden here to meet-

Such ties would make this life of ours
Too fair for ought so fleet.

Mrs. Hemans.

Yes, Yes! that boon, life's richest treat,
He had, or fancied that he had;
Say 't was but in his own conceit-

The fancy made him glad!

Crown of his cup, and garnish of his dish,
The boon prefigured in his earliest wish,
The fair fulfilment of his poesy,

When his young heart first yearn'd for sympathy.




NAY, take my life and all, pardon not that;
You take my house, when you do take the prop
That doth sustain my house: you take my life,
When you do take the means whereby I live.


Helen the taker, 't is plain to see,
A taker of ships, a taker of men,
A taker of cities is she.

Blackie, from Æschylus.


LIKE a tale

Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.

For aught that I could read,
Could every hear by tale or history,
The course of true love never did run smooth.



My conscience hath a thousand several tongues,
And every tongue brings in a several tale,
And every tale condemns me for a villain.


Hast thou a talent? hide it not,
Nor let it idle be;
But let occasion e'er be sought
To use it worthily.


They gather round, and wonder at the tale
Of horrid apparition, tall and ghostly,
That walks at dead of night, or takes his stand
O'er some new-open'd grave, and, (strange to tell,)
Evanishes at crowing of the cock.



'Tis not my talent to conceal my thoughts, Or carry smiles and sunshine in my face, When discontent sits heavy at my heart.






TUT, tut, my lord, we will not stand to prate,
Talkers are no good doers; be assured
We go to use our hands, and not our tongues.

I never, with important air,
In conversation overbear;


My tongue within my lips I rein,

For who talks much must talk in vain.
But fools, to talking ever prone,
Are sure to make their follies known.


WINDS rushed abroad

From the four hinges of the world, and fell
On the vexed wilderness, whose tallest pines,
Though rooted deep as high and sturdiest oaks,
Bowed their stiff necks.



May they increase so fast, and spread their boughs
As the high fame of their great owner grows!
May he live long enough to see them all

Dark shadows cast, and as his palace tall!-Waller.

As some tall cliff that lifts its awful form,

Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm; Though round its breast the rolling clouds are spread, Eternal sunshine settles on its head. Goldsmith.


THOSE that tame wild horses

Pace 'em not in their hands to make 'em gentle,
But stop their mouths with stubborn bits.-Shakspere.

Praise him, each savage furious beast,

That on his stores do daily feast;

And you, tame slaves of the laborious plough,

Your weary knees to your Creator bow.-Roscommon.

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