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He does allot for every exercise
A several hour; for sloth, the nurse of vices,
And rust of action, is a stranger to him.

Massinger. No body's healthful without exercise. Aleyn.

Where pain of unextinguished fire
Must exercise us without hope of end.


Age's chief acts, and aims, are to grow wise;
Virtue to know, and known to exercise. Denham.

The purest exercise of health,
The kind refresher of the summer heat.


Call home our exiled friends abroad,
That fled the snares of watchful tyranny.

That knowledge which as spirits we obtain,
Is to be valued in the midst of pain;
Annihilation were to lose heaven more;
We are not quite exiled where thought can soar.

Dryden. Ulysses, sole of all the victor train, An exile from his dear paternal coast, Deplored his absent queen and empire lost.

Pope, from Homer. An exile, ill in heart and frame,

A wanderer, weary of the way;-
A stranger, without love's sweet claim

On any heart, go where I may! Mrs. Osgood. But doth the exile's heart serenely there

In sunshine dwell? Ah! when was exile blest? When did bright scenes, clear heavens, or summer air Chase from his soul the fever of unrest?

Mrs. Hemans. 280


OFT expectation fails, and most oft there
Where most it promises: and oft it hits
Where hope is coldest, and despair most sits.

Now clear I understand
What oft my stedfast thoughts have searched in vain;
Why our great expectation should be called
The seed of woman.


Formed to enjoy-with longings all repressed

Led by our spirit's law-life's first essay Is happiness! Still in the future blest

The past forgot-we give our hearts a prey To expectation! Happier did we rest

And if not pleased, yet passive! our brief day Is quickly summed. Then leave thy hopes and sorrow To Him who gives and may withhold to-morrow.

Dr. W. Beattie.

EXPERIENCE. EXPERIENCE is by industry achiev'd, And perfected by the swift course of time.- Shakspere.

Some truths by reason are not to be tried;
But we have sure experience for our guide.—Dryden.
'Tis greatly wise to talk with our past hours;
And ask them what report they bore to heaven;
And how they might have borne more welcome news.
Their answers form what men experience call;
If wisdom's friend, her best; if not, worst foe.

Young. Our life indeed has bitterness enough

To change a loving nature into gall: Experience sew's coarse patches on the stuff

Whose texture was originally all Smooth as the rose leaf's, and whose hues were bright

As are the colours of the weeping cloud When the sun smiles upon its tears.

Mrs. Lenox Conyngham.




But true expression, like th' unchanging sun,
Clears and improves whate'er it shines upon;
It gilds all objects, but it alters none.


With all the wonders of external grace,
A person finely turned, a mould, a face,
Where (union rare) expression's lively force,
With beauty's softest magic holds discourse.

No longer shall thy bodice aptly lace,
That air and shape of harmony express,
Fine by degrees, and delicately less.


Each verse so swells expressive of the woes,
And every tear in lines so mournful flows,
We, spite of fame, her fate reversed believe,
O’erlook her crimes and think she ought to live.

But ill expression sometimes gives allay
To nobler thoughts, whose flame shall ne'er decay.


EXTREMES, though contrary, have the like effects;
Extreme heat mortifies, like extreme cold;
Extreme love breeds satiety, as well
As extreme hatred; and too violent rigour
Tempts chastity as much as too much license.

Those edges soonest turn, that are most keen,
A sober moderation stands secure,
No violent extremes endure.


'Tis in worldly accidents,
As in the world itself, where things most distant
Meet one another: Thus the east and west,
Upon the globe a mathematical point
Only divides: Thus happiness and misery,
And all extremes, are still contiguous.


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COMPARE her eyes,
Not to the sun, for they do shine" by night;

Not to the moon, for they are changing never;
Not to the stars, for they have purer light;

Not to the fire, for they consume not ever:-
But to the Maker's self they likest be,
Whose light doth lighten all things here we see.

From woman's eyes this doctrine I derive:
They sparkle still the true Promethean fire;
They are the arts, the books, the academies,
That show, contain, and nourish all the world.

Shakspere, The darts of love, like lightning, wound within, And, tho' they pierce it, never hurt the skin; They leave no marks behind them where they fly, Tho' through the tend'rest part of all, the eye.

Butler. And then her look-Oh, where's the heart so wise, Could, unbewilder'd, meet those matchless eyes? Quick, restless, strange, but exquisite withal,

Like those of angels.
Her eye, (I'm very fond of handsome eyes)
Was large and dark, suppressing half its fire
Until she spoke; then, through its soft disguise,
Flash'd an expression more of pride than ire,
And love than either.



Those eyes, those eyes, how full of heaven they are,

When the calm twilight leaves the heaven most holy! Tell me, sweet eyes, from what divinest star Did ye drink in your liquid melancholy?

Tell me, beloved eyes! Bulwer.

Some praise the eyes they love to see,

As rivalling the western star;
But eyes I know well worth to me

A thousand firmaments afar. John Sterling.

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TRIPTOLEMUS, so sung the nine,
Strewed plenty from his cart divine;
But spite of all those fable-makers,
He never sowed on Almaign acres.


Hail, fabled grotto! Hail, Eysian soil!
Thou fairest spot of fair Britannia's isle.

Tickell. Flow on, flow on, fair fable's happy stream,

Vocal for aye with Eld's first music chaunt; Where, mirror'd far adown the crystal, gleam

The golden domes of Carduel and Romaunt! Still one last look on knighthood's peerless ring, On mooned Dream-land and the Dragon King.


FACE. A FACE that should content me wondrous well, .

Should not be fair, but lovely to behold, With gladsome cheer, all grief for to expel;

With sober looks so would I that it should Speak without words, such words as none can tell;

The tress also should be of crisped gold, With wit and these perchance I might be tied, And knit again the knot that should not slide.

Sir T. Wyatt. If to her share some female errors fall, Look on her face, and you 'll forget them all.

There is no miniature
In her face, but is a copious theme,
Which would, discoursed at large of, make a volume.

From beauty still to beauty ranging
In every face I found a dart.


Yet even her tyranny had such a grace,
The women pardoned all, except her face.- Byron.

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