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Of whom such massacre
O thou, my friend, my genius, come along,
Dryden. There swims no goose so grey, but, soon or late, She finds some honest gander for a mate. Pope.
MEANING THESE lost their sense their learning to display, And those explained the meaning quite away.-Pope.
A work, or thought, Is what each makes it to himself, and may Be full of great dark meanings like the sea, With shoals of life rushing; or like the air, Benighted with the wing of the wild dove, Sweeping miles broad o'er the far western woods, With mighty glimpses of the central light,Or may be nothing,-bodiless, spiritless.
P. J. Bailey.
MEANNESS. Can you imagine I so mean would prove, To save my life by changing of my love? Dryden. Prodigality hath a sister Meanness, his fixed antagonist
heart-fellow; Who often outliveth the short career of the brother
she despiseth: She hath lean lips and a sharp look, and her eyes are
red and hungry; But he sloucheth in his gait, and his mouth speaketh
loosely and maudlin. Martin F. Tupper.
STRONG was their plot,
Beaumont and Fletcher, any great designs thou dost intend, Think on the means, the manner, and the end.
To make a god, a hero, or a king,
Who readeth much and never meditates,
Is like a greedy eater of much food,
The pensive secrecy of desert cell. Milton. Thy thoughts to nobler meditation give, And study how to die, not how to live.
As ony lamb upon a lea;
As was the blink o' Phemie's e'e.
With a spirit as meek, as the gentlest of those Who in life's sunny valley lie sheltered and warm.
Moore. Not all the pomp and pageantry of worlds, Reflect such glory on the eye supreme, As the meek virtues of one holy man.
I SWEAR By the simplicity of Venus' doves! By that which knitteth souls, and prospers loves! In the same place thou hast appointed me, To-morrow truly will I meet with thee. Shakspere. The joy of meeting pays the pangs of absence; Else who could bear it?
When lovers meet in adverse hour,
Then darkly closing clouds between. Scott. As letters some hand has invisibly trac'd,
When held to the flame, will steal out to the sight; So, many a feeling that long seem'd effac’d, The warmth of a meeting like this brings to light.
Wherein you spend your folly;
You shall not chase my gloom away; There's such a charm in melancholy,
I would not, if I could, be gay! Rogers.
Camoens. O memory! thou fond deceiver,
Still importunate and vain,
And turning all the past to pain:
Thy smiles increase the wretch's woe!
Byron. Ah me! how oft will fancy's spells, in slumber,
Recall my native country to my mind; How oft regret will bid me sadly number
Each lost delight, and dear friend left behind!
Dreams of the land where all my wishes centre,
Those scenes which I am doom'd no more to know, Full oft shall memory trace—my soul's tormentorAnd turn each pleasure past to present woe.
Mat. G. Lewis. Hail, Memory, hail! in thy exhaustless mine, From age to age unnumbered treasures shine! Thought and her shadowy brood thy call obey, And place and time are subject to thy sway; Thy pleasures most we feel, when most alone; The only pleasures we can call our own. Rogers.