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SHE bids me hope! and, in that charming word,
Has peace and transport to my soul restor'd.
Lord Lyttleton.

My joy, my best belov'd, my only wish!
How shall I speak the transport of my soul!



On such a theme 't were impious to be calm; Passion is reason, transport, temper, here! Young.


NEVER were men so weary of their skins,
And apt to leap out of themselves as they;
Who when they travel to bring forth rare men,
Come home delivered of a fine French suit.

-he's sole heir
To all the moral virtues, that first greets
The light with a new fashion; which becomes them,
Like apes disfigur'd with the attires of men.


The sure traveller,
Though he alight sometimes, still goeth on.


Go, soft enthusiast, quit the cypress groves;
Nor to the rivulet's lonely moanings tune
Your sad complaint. Go, seek the cheerful haunts'
Of men, and mingle with the bustling crowd;
Lay schemes for wealth, or power, or fame; the wish
Of nobler minds, and push them night and day,
Or join the caravan, in quest of scenes
New to your eyes, and shifting every hour,
Beyond the Alps, beyond the Appenines.


Where'er I roam, whatever realms to see,
My heart untravell'd, fondly turns to thee:
Still to my brother turns, with ceaseless pain,
And drags at each remove a lengthening chain.





HE is composed and framed of treachery.


I treated, trusted you, and thought ye mine;
When, in requital of my best endeavours,
You treacherously practiced to undo me.


Desire in rapture gazed awhile,
And saw the treacherous goddess smile. Swift.


TREASON is but trusted like the fox,

Who ne'er so tame, so cherished, and locked up, Will have a wild trick of his ancestors.-Shakspere.

Treason doth never prosper; what's the reason?
For if it prosper none dare call it treason.

Sir John Harrington.

By heav'n, there's treason in his aspect!
That cheerless gloom, those eyes that pore on earth,
That bended body, and those folded arms,
Are indications of a tortur'd mind,
And blazon equal villany and shame.

For know that treason,
And prostituted faith, like strumpets vile,
The slaves of appetite, when lust is sated-
Are turn'd adrift to dwell with infamy,
By those that us'd them.



How safe is treason, and how sacred ill,
When none can sin against the people's will;
Where crowds can wink and no offence be known,
Since in another's guilt they find their own.


The man who pauses in the paths of treason,
Halts on a quicksand-the first step engulphs him.




HAD I but pearls of price-did golden piles
Of hoarded wealth swell in my treasury,
Easy I'd win the fawning flatterer's smiles,
And bend the sturdiest stoic's iron knee.

A. A. Locke.

A blessed thing the golden sun,

That kisseth morning's dews away;
A blessed thing the dews, which run

O'er bud and blade at close of day,
To give them bloom and bid them be
Fair gems in nature's treasury.


Calder Campbell.


THE garden trees are busy with the shower
That fell ere sunset: now methinks they talk,
Lowly and sweetly, as befits the hour,

One to another down the grassy walk.
Hark! the laburnum from his opening flower

This cherry creeper greets in whispers light, While the grim fir, rejoicing in the night, Hoarse mutters to the murmuring sycamore. What shall I deem their converse? would they hail The wild grey light that fronts yon massive cloud, Or the half bow, rising like pillared fire? Or are they sighing faintly for desire That with May dawn their leaves be not o'erflowed, And dews about their feet may never fail.

A. H. Hallam.

There grew a tree, a lofty spreading tree,
And high in air it reared its branching head,
And oft beneath its leafy canopy

Our hours would pass, which converse sweetly made
A cup of pleasure, quaffed beneath its shade;
And fairy music oft the branches threw,

By winds relieved, whose breezes, as they played,
Gave tones of thrilling softness, such as drew
The humble hoping heart its sorrows to subdue.
Stuart Farquharson.





BEWARE of too sublime a sense
Of your own worth and consequence!
The man who dreams himself so great,
And his importance of such weight,
That all around, in all that's done,
Must move and act for him alone,
Will learn in school of tribulation
The folly of his expectation.

When the clouds have poured their rain,
Sweeter smell the flowers;

Brightest shine heaven's starry train
In earth's sunless hours.

Tribulation-patience works,

Hope from hence we borrow,
Such the hidden good that lurks
In dark days of sorrow.


B. Barton.

Mine be the holy humble tribulation,

No longer feigned distress, fantastic woe;I know my griefs, but then my consolationMy trust and my immortal hopes-I know. Caroline Bowles.


Ir is a note

Of upstart greatness to observe and watch
For those poor trifles, which the noble mind
Neglects and scorns.

Ben Jonson.

Mankind, tho' satirists with jobations weary us,
Has only two weak parts if fairly reckon'd;
The first of which, is trifling with things serious;
And seriousness in trifles is the second.
Remove these little rubs, whoe'er knows how,
And fools will be as scarce,-as wise men now.


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GREAT minds erect their never-failing trophies
On the firm base of mercy; but to triumph
Over a suppliant, by proud fortune captivated,
Argues a bastard conquest.


Great conquerors greater glory gain
By foes in triumph led than slain;
The laurels that adorn their brows,
Are pull'd from living, not dead, boughs.



City, country, all,

Is in gay triumph tempest toss'd,

I scarce could press along. The trumpet's voice
Is lost in loud repeated shouts, that raise
Your name to heaven.



I WILL believe

Thou wilt not utter what thou dost not know;
And so far will I trust thee.


Put not thy trust in such as use to feign,
Except thou mind to put thy friend to pain.
Sir T. Wyatt.

Learn to dissemble wrongs, to smile at injuries,
And suffer crimes thou want'st the power to punish:
Be easy, affable, familiar, friendly:

Search, and know all mankind's mysterious ways;
But trust the secret of thy soul to none.
This is the way,

This only, to be safe in such a world as this is.


There are three things a wise man will not trust:
The wind, the sunshine of an April day,
And woman's plighted faith.


Oh, woe, deep woe, to earthly love's fond trust,
When all it once has worshipp'd lies in dust!

Mrs. E. C. Embury.

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