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NOBLER birth Of creatures animate with gradual life, Of growth, sense, reason, all summed up in man.

Milton. Let cavillers deny That brutes have reason; sure 'tis something more, 'Tis Heaven directs, and stratagems inspires, Beyond the short extent of human thought.

Somerville. The heart is hard in nature, and unfit For human fellowship, as being void Of sympathy, and therefore dead alike To love and friendship both, that is not pleased With sight of animals enjoying life, Nor feels their happiness augment his own.— Cowper.

Though man, as God's own miniature, reveals
The grace of beauty and the glow of soul,
And Deity be chartered on his brow,
The brutes and plumy pilgrims of the air,
The insect tribe, and all the scaly troop
That wing their rapid way, proclaim a God!
Behold the lion bounding from his den
With red and rolling eye! or hear the bear
While grimly glancing o'er the ice-clad waste,
Loading the wind with his tremendous howl!
Or see leviathan uproot the deep,
And lash the ocean into storms! or mark
The kingly eagle pierce the cope of heaven,
And shiver the contending clouds! Great God!
These give to mortal eyes a glimpse of Thee!

Robert Montgomery.

As he who long in populous cities pent,
Where houses thick, and sewers annoy the air,
Forth issuing on a summer's morn to breathe
Amongst the pleasant villages and farms
Adjoined, from each thing met conceives delight.


The things we fear bring less annoy
Than fear; and hope brings greater joy.


What then, remains last after past annoy,
To take the good vicissitude of joy.


Woe to poor man! each outward thing annoys him; He heaps on inward grief what most destroys him.

With thy clear keen joyance

Sadness cannot be;
Shadow of annoyance

Never came near thee.-Shelley, to the Lark.


WITHIN the hollow crown, That rounds the mortal temples of a king, Death keeps his court; and there the antic sits, Scoffing his state.


What! dares the slave Come hither covered with an antic face, To fleer and scorn at our solemnity?


Scrambling, outfacing, fashion-mongering boys,
That lie, and cog, and flout, deprave and slander,
Go anticly, and shew an outward hideousness,
And speak of half-a-dozen dangerous words.

A work of rich entail, and curious mould,
Woven with antics, and wild imagery. Spenser.

Of all our antic sights and pageantry,
Which English idiots run in crowds to see.--Dryden,

For even at first reflection she espies
Such toys, such antics, and such vanities,
That she retires, and shrinks for shame and fear.

Davies. 46


TIME thou anticipatst my dread exploits!
The flighty purpose never is o'ertook,
Unless the deed go with it.


Why should we Anticipate our sorrows? 'tis like those Who die for fear of death.


Her fancy follow'd him through foaming waves
To distant shores, and she would sit and weep
At what a sailor suffers. Fancy, too,
Delusive most where warmest wishes are,
Would oft anticipate his glad return,
And dream of transports she was not to know.-Cowper.

SOME men there are love not a gaping pig;
Some that are mad if they behold a cat.
Masterless passion sways it to the mood
Of what it likes or loathes.


Ask you what provocation I have had?
The strong antipathy of good to bad.


ANTIQUARY. ANTIQUITY. INSTRUCTED by the antiquary, time, He must, he is, he cannot but be wise.- Shakspere.

They are the Registers--the chronicles of the age They were made in, and speak the truth of history, Better than a hundred of your printed Communications.

S. Marmyon. They say he sits All day in contemplation of a statue With ne'er a nose; and dotes on the decays, With greater love than the self-loved Narcissus Did on his beauty.

S. Marmyon.


A copper-plate, with almanacks
Engrav'd upon't; with other nacks
Of Booker's, Lilly's, Sarah Jimmer's,
And blank schemes to discover nimmers;
A moon dial, with Napier's bones,
And sev'ral constellation stones.


What toil did honest Curio take,
What strict inquiries did he make,
To get one medal wanting yet,
And perfect all his Roman set!
'Tis found! and oh! his happy lot!
'Tis bought, locked up, and lies forgot!— Prior.

My copper lamps at any rate,

For being true antique I bought;
Yet wisely melted down my plate,

On modern models to be wrought;
And trifles I alike pursue,

Because they're old, because they're new. Prior.
With sharpened sight pale antiquaries pore;
The inscriptions value, but the rust adore. Pope.
He slows on holidays a sacred pin,
That touched the ruff, that touched Queen Bess's chin.

Young. Rare are the buttons of a Roman's breeches, In antiquarian eyes surpassing riches; Rare is each cracked, black, rotten, earthen dish, That held of ancient Rome—the flesh and fish.

Dr. Wolcot. I knew Anselmo. He was shrewd and prudent, Wisdom and cunning had their share of him; But he was shrewish as a wayward child, And pleased again by toys which childhood please; As- book of fables grand with print of wood, Or else the jingling of a rusty medal, Or the rare melody of some old ditty, That first was sung to please King Pepin's cradle.

Scott. Name not those living death's-heads unto me, For these not ancient, but antique be.



And sooner shall a galling weather spy,
By drawing forth heaven's scheme, tell certainly
What fashioned hats, or ruffs, or suits next year
Our giddy-headed antique youth will wear.

He had a routh o' auld nick-nackets,
Rusty airn caps, and jingling jackets;
Would held the Loudons three in tackets,

A towmond gude;
And parritch-pats, and auld saut-backets,
Afore the flude.

Must he no more divert the tedious day,
Nor sparkling thoughts in antique words convey?

Antiquity, the childhood of the world,
Broods like a torpid vapour o'er thy clime,
Dulling its vigour into drowsy calm.

R. Montgomery.

Costly thy habit as thy purse can buy,
But not expressed in fancy; rich, not gaudy;
For the apparel oft proclaims the man.-Shakspere.

Thy gown? why, ay:-come tailor let us see’t.
O mercy, good! what masking stuff is here!
What's this? a sleeve? 'tis like a demi-cannon:
What! up and down, carv'd like an apple-tart?
Here's snip and nip, and cut, and slish, and slash,
Like to a censer in a barber's shop:--
Why what, a’devil's name, tailor, call'st thou this?


OF good and evil much they argued then,
Passion and apathy, glory and shame.


In lazy apathy let stoics boast
Their virtue fixed; 'tis fixed as in frost,
Contracted all retiring to the breast!
But strength of mind is exercise, not rest.


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