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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.

BYRON'S Beppo.



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. . . .




Autumn succeeds, a sober, tepid age,
Nor froze with fear, nor boiling into rage;
Last, winter creeps along with tardy pace,
Sour is his front, and furrow'd is his face.

2. See, winter comes, to rule the varied year, Sullen and sad, with all his rising train; Vapours, and clouds, and storms.


THOMSON'S Seasons.

3. As yet the trembling year is unconfin'd,
And winter oft at eve resumes the breeze,
Chills the pale morn, and bids his driving sleets
Deform the day delightless.

THOMSON'S Seasons.

4. But see, the fading many-colour'd woods, Shade deep'ning over shade, the country round Embrown.

THOMSON'S Seasons.

5. From bright'ning fields of ether, fair disclos'd,
Child of the sun, refulgent Summer comes;
In pride of youth, and felt thro' nature's depth,
He comes, attended by the sultry hours,
And ever-fanning breezes on his way.

THOMSON'S Seasons.

6. O winter! ruler of the inverted year,
I love thee, all unlovely as thou seem'st,
And dreaded as thou art.

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7. Where smiling Spring its earliest visit paid, And parting Summer ling'ring blooms delay'd. GOLDSMITH'S Deserted Village. 8. And winter, lingering, chills the lap of spring. GOLDSMITH'S Traveller.

9. Fain would my muse the flowing treasure sing, And humble glories of the youthful spring.



10. Where summer's beauty 'midst of winter stays, And winter's coolness, spite of summer's rays.

11. Eternal Spring, with smiling verdure, here
Warms the mild air, and crowns the youthful year.

12. But mighty nature bounds as from her birth.
The sun is in the heavens, and life on earth;
Flowers in the valley, splendour in the beam,
Health in the gale, and freshness in the stream.

15. The sultry summer past, September comes,
Soft twilight of the slow declining year,
More sober than the buxom, blooming May,
And therefore less the favourite of the world;
But dearest month of all to pensive minds.




13. The merry May hath pleasant hours, and dreamily they glide,

14. The keen north-west, that heaps the drifted snow. DAVID HUMPHREYS.



As if they floated, like the leaves, upon a silver tide;

The trees are full of crimson buds, the woods are full of birds,

And the waters flow to music, like a tune with pleasant words.

And the meridian sun,

Most sweetly smiling with attemper'd beams,
Sheds gently down a mild and grateful warmth.

17. The melancholy days are o'er,
The saddest of the year,
Of wailing winds, and naked woods,
And meadows brown and sear.

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