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Roscommon, from Horace.
Sir John Harrington. 'Tis the way of writing at which offence is taken, And this is the misfortune of an author, That unless some are angry with him, none are pleased; Which puts him under this dilemma, That he must either ruin himself or his printer.
They say others write like me,
Sir R. Howard. Some write confined by physic; some, by debt; Some, for 't is Sunday; some, because it is wet; Another writes because his father writ, And proves himself a bastard by his wit. Young. Happy within whose honest breast concealed, There lives a faith, no word may surer make! Yet still a parchment, written, stamped, and sealed, A spectre is before which all must quake, Commit but once thy word to the goose feather, Then must thou yield the sway to wax and leather.
Shelley, from Goethe.
of a ready writer, whereunto shall it be
likened? Ask of the scholar, he shall know-to the chains that
bind a Proteus : Ask of the poet, he shall say—to the sun, the lamp
of heaven: Ask of thy neighbour, he can answer—to the friend
that telleth my thought; The merchant considereth it well, as a ship freighted
with wares; The divine holdeth it a miracle, giving utterance to
the dumb. It fixeth, expoundeth, and disseminateth sentiment; Chaining up a thought, clearing it of mystery, and
sending it bright into the world. To think rightly, is of knowledge; to speak fluently,
is of nature; To read with profit, is of care; but to write aptly, is of practice.
Martin F. Tupper.
That right long time is overborne of wrong;
See the minutes how they run; How many makes the hour full complete, How many hours bring about the day, How many days will finish up the year, How many years a mortal man may live.—Shakspere. God of the changeful year!—amidst the glow
Of strength and beauty, and transcendant grace, Which on the mountain heights, or deep below, In sheltered vales, and each sequestered place,
Thy forms of vegetable life assume;
Or whether, scenting ocean's heaving breast,
Of fruits and flowers, Thy works delight our eyes,
The pleasant, pleasant spring-time,
The summer's gorgeous dyes;
Have faded from all eyes;
The furrowed and the sear,
Youth is ever apt to judge in haste,
Denham. Expand the passions of thy heart in youth; Fight thy love battles whilst thy heart is strong, And wounds heal kindly. An April frost Is sharp, but kills not; sad October's storm Strikes when the juices and the vital sap Are ebbing from the leaf.
Henry Taylor. Ah! who can say, however fair his view,
Through what sad scenes his path may lie?
Soon will they learn to scan with thoughtful eye
- With all the real