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6. The brave do never shun the light;

Just are their thoughts, and open are their tempers;
Truly, without disguise, they love or hate;
Still are they found in the fair face of day,
And heaven and men are judges of their actions.

8. A man of sense can artifice disdain,
As men of wealth may venture to go plain;
I find the fool when I behold the screen,
For 't is the wise man's interest to be seen.


7. "T is great, 't is manly to disdain disguise; It shows our spirit, or it proves our strength. YOUNG'S Night Thoughts.


1. Will all Neptune's ocean wash this blood

Clear from my hand? No, this my hand will rather
The multitudinous seas incarnadine,

Making this green one, red.

The great King of kings
Hath in the table of his law commanded

YOUNG'S Love of Fame.

That thou shalt do no murder; wilt thou then
Spurn at his edict, and fulfil a man's?

3. The tyrannous and bloody act is done; The most arch deed of piteous massacre That ever yet this land was guilty of.


4. Though in the trade of war I have slain men,
Yet do I hold it very stuff o' the conscience
To do no contriv'd murder; I lack iniquity
Sometimes, to do me service.






5. See his face is black and full of blood;
His eyeballs further out than when he lived,
Staring full ghastly, like a strangled man;
His hair uprear'd; his nostrils stretch'd with struggling;
His hands abroad display'd, as one that grasp'd
And tugg'd for life, and was by strength subdued.


6. Blood, though it sleeps a time, yet never dies; The gods on murd'rers fix revengeful eyes.

7. Murder itself is past all expiation,
The greatest crime that nature doth abhor.





Is there a crime

Beneath the roof of heaven, that stains the soul
Of men with more infernal hue, than damn'd


9. Cease, triflers; would have me feel remorse,
Leave me alone-nor cell, nor chain, nor dungeons,
Speak to the murderer with the voice of solitude.
MATURIN'S Bertram.

I think thou wilt forgive him, whom his God
Can ne'er forgive, nor his own soul—farewell!



Unbidden guests

Are often welcomest when they are gone.


Oh! thou dead

And everlasting witness! whose unsinking
Blood darkens earth and heaven! what thou now art,
I know not; but if thou seest what I am,




2. So lilies in a glass enclose

The glass will seem as white as those.
3. "Tis hard, where dulness overrules,
To keep good sense in crowds of fools;
And we admire the man who saves
His honesty in crowds of knaves.

4. Then must I plunge again into the crowd
Where revel calls, and laughter, vainly loud,
False to the heart, distorts the hollow cheek,
To leave the flagging spirit doubly weak.

5. Then as we never met before, and never,
It may be, may again encounter, why,
I thought to cheer up this


BYRON'S Childe Harold.

6. Like the stain'd web, that whitens in the sun, Grow pure by being purely shone upon.




With wild surprise,

As if to marble struck, devoid of sense,
A stupid moment motionless she stood.


MOORE'S Lalla Rookh.

He stood

Pierc'd by severe amazement, hating life,
Speechless and fix'd in all the death of woe.


THOMSON'S Seasons.

THOMSON'S Seasons.

3. Were his eyes open? Yes, and his mouth too;—
Surprise has this effect, to make one dumb,
Yet leave the gate, which eloquence slips through,
As wide as if a long speech were to come.

BYRON'S Don Juan.



4. A war-horse, at the trumpet's sound,
A lion, rous'd by heedless hound,
A tyrant wak'd to sudden strife,
By graze of ill-directed knife,
Starts not to more convulsive life,
Than he who heard that vow display'd.

BYRON's Bride of Abydos.


1. How many great ones may remember'd be,

Which in their days most famously did flourish,
Of whom no words we hear, no signs now see,
But as things wip'd out with a sponge do perish,
Because they living cared not to cherish

No gentle wits, through pride or covetize,

Which might their names for ever memorize!
SPENSER'S Ruins of Time.


He that writes,
Or makes a feast, more certainly invites
His judges than his friends; there's not a guest
But will find something wanting, or ill-drest.


3. Much thou hast said, which I know when
And where thou stol'st from other men;
Whereby 't is plain thy light and gifts,
Are all but plagiary shifts.

BUTLER'S Hudibras.

4. Authors are judg'd by strange capricious rules;
The great ones are thought mad, the small ones fools;
Yet sure the best are most severely fated,

For fools are only laugh'd at-wits are hated.


5. Some write, confin'd by physic; some, by debt;
Some, for 't is Sunday; some, because 't is wet;
Another writes because his father writ,
And proves himself a bastard by his wit.

6. None but an author knows an author's cares, Or Fancy's fondness for the child she bears.

7. Our doctor thus, with stuff'd sufficiency
Of all omnigenous omnisciency,
Began (as who would not begin,
That had like him so much within?)
To let it out in books of all sorts,
Folios, quartos, large and small sorts.



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8. One hates an author that's all author, fellows
In foolscap uniform turn'd up with ink;
So very anxious, clever, fine and jealous,
One don't know what to say to them, or think,
Unless to puff them with a pair of bellows;

Of coxcombry's worst coxcombs, e'en the pink
Are preferable to these shreds of paper,
These unquench'd snuffings of the midnight taper.


1. Perceivest thou not the process of the year,
How the four seasons in four forms appear?
Like human life in every shape they wear:
Spring first, like infancy, shoots out her head,
With milky juice requiring to be fed. . . .
Proceeding onward, whence the year began,
The summer grows adult, and ripens into man. . . .

BYRON'S Beppo.

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