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When thou dost pinch thy bearer, thou dost sit
Like a rich armour worn in heat of day,
That scalds with safety.


He had a man-like look, and sparkling eye,
A front whereon sate such a majesty
As aw'd all his beholders; his long hair,
After the Grecian fashion, without care
Hung loosely on his shoulders, black as jet,
And shining with his oily honour'd sweat;
His body straight, and well-proportion'd, tall,
Well limb'd, well set, long arm'd;-one hardly shall
Among a thousand find one in all points
So well compact, and sinew'd in his joints.
But that which crown'd the rest, he had a tongue
Whose sweetness toil'd unwillingness along,
And drew attention from the dullest ear,
His words so oily, smooth, and winning were.


True Majesty's the very soul of kings;
And rectitude's the soul of Majesty:
If mining minions sap that rectitude,
The king may live, but majesty expires;
And he that lessens majesty, impairs
That just obedience public good requires;
Doubly a traitor, to the crown and state.



MALICE Scorn'd, puts out

Itself; but argued, gives a kind of credit

To a false accusation.


He who would free from malice pass his days
Must live obscure and never merit praise.


My rage is not malicious; like a spark
Of fire by steel inforced out of a flint,
It is no sooner kindled, but extinct.






AND fast by him pale malady was placed;
Sore sick in bed, her colour all foregone;
Bereft of stomach, savour, and of taste.
Ne could she brook no meat but broths alone;
Her breath corrupt; her keepers every one
Abhorring her; her sickness past recure,
Detesting physic, and all physic's cure.

A malady


Preys on my heart that medicine cannot reach,
Invisible and cureless.



MAMMON's close-linked bonds have bound him,
Self-imprisoned and seldom burst;

Though heaven's waters gushed around him,
He would pine with earth's poor thirst.


Mrs. S. J. Hale.

There went this saying through the crowded mart,
"Let's build a temple for the golden god,
He that hath power to scourge the human heart,
And torture it as with a scorpion rod:
And let us make an image of a clod,

And overlay it all with gilding bright,

And let our sweat and blood bedew the sod,
That we may worship it both day and night,
Sing praises to its name, and glorify its might."
And so they built a temple high and strong,
A mighty structure, vast in its extent;
And there they laboured earnestly and long,
A form to fashion, that might represent
Mammon, their Deity: 'twas done; they bent
In adoration to this thing of clay;

To every quarter of the globe they sent
To summon worshippers, and day by day

More dense became the crowd that there did homage



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MEN, like butterflies,

Shew not their mealy wings but to the summer;
And not a man, for being simply man,

Hath any honour; but honour for those honours
That are without him, as place, riches, favour,
Prizes of accident as oft as merit;

Which when they fall, as being slippery standers,
The love that lean'd on them is slippery too,
Do one pluck down another, and together
Die in the fall.

Man is a name of honour for a king;
Additions take away from each chief thing.



Know then thyself, presume not God to scan,
The proper study of mankind is man.

Like to the falling of a star,
Or as the flights of eagles are;
Or like the fresh spring's gaudy hue,
Or silver drops of morning dew;
Or like a wind that chafes the flood,
Or bubbles which on water stood;
Ev'n such is man, whose borrow'd light
Is straight call'd in, and paid to-night.
The wind blows out, the bubble dies,
The spring entomb'd in autumn lies;
The dew dries up, the star is shot,
The flight is past, and man forgot.


Dr. H. King.

How poor, how rich, how abject, how august,
How complicate, how wonderful is man!
How passing wonder He who made him such!


What tho' on hamely fare we dine,
Wear hodden grey, and a' that?

Gie fools their silk, and knaves their wine,
The man's a man for a' that.





TETCHY and wayward was thy infancy,

Thy school-days frightful, desp'rate, wild, and furious, Thy prime of manhood daring, bold, and vent'rous.

Why grieve that time has brought so soon

The sober age of manhood on?

As idly should I

weep at noon,


To see the blush of morning gone.-W. C. Bryant.


TRUE is that whilome that good poet said,
That gentle mind by gentle deed is known,
For man by nothing is so well betrayed

As by his manners, in which plain is shown
Of what degree and what race he is grown.

Manner is all in all, whate'er is writ,
The substitute of genius, sense, and wit.




"WHO chooseth me, shall gain what many men desire." What many men desire! That many may be meant Of the fool multitude, that choose by show,

Not learning more than the fond eye doth teach:
Which pries not to the interior, but, like the martlet,
Builds in the weather on the outward wall,
Even in the force and road of casuality.
I will not choose what many men desire,
Because I will not jump with common spirits,
And rank me with the barbarous multitudes.


Yet this I apprehend not; why to those
Among whom God will deign to dwell on earth,
So many and so various laws are given:
So many laws argue so many sins.




WHAT a delicious breath marriage sends forth,
The violet bed's not sweeter! Honest wedlock
Is like a banquetting house built in a garden,
On which the spring's chaste flowers take delight
To cast their modest odours; when base lust,
With all her powders, paintings, and best pride,
Is but a fair house built by a ditch side.


J. Middleton.

What do you think of marriage?
I take 't as those that deny purgatory:
It locally contains or heaven or hell;
There's no third place in it.


Neglected beauty now is prized by gold;
And sacred love is basely bought and sold:
Wives are grown traffic, marriage is a trade,
And when a nuptial of two hearts is made,
There must of moneys too a wedding be,
That coin, as well as men, may multiply.-Randolph.

O marriage! marriage! what a curse is thine,
Whose hands alone consent, and hearts abhor!

Oh! married love!-each heart shail own,
Where two congenial souls unite,

Thy golden chains inlaid with down,

Aaron Hill.

Thy lamp with heaven's own splendour bright.

Though fools spurn Hymen's gentle powers,
We, who improve his golden hours,
By sweet experience know

That marriage, rightly understood,
Gives to the tender and the good,

A Paradise below.


The love betwixt us was not as the flush
And momentary kindling in warm youth;
But marriage, and what term of life was given,
Brought hourly increase to our common store.

H. Taylor.

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