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Roscommon, from Horace.
Sir John Harrington.
Sir R. Howard. Some write confined 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. 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.
The pen 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,
Away with thee, old year. Richard Howitt.
Lusty youth Is the very May-morn of delight, When boldest floods are full of wilful heat, And joy to think how long they have to fight In fancy's field, before their life take flight; Since he which latest did the game begin, Doth longest hope to linger still therein.—Gascoigne.
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.
Ah! who can say, however fair his vieir,
Through what sad scenes his path may lie? Let careless youth its seeming joys pursue,
Soon will they learn to scan with thoughtful eye The illusive past and dark futurity.
Kirke White. The youth you spoke of was a glowing moth, Born in the eve and crushed before the dawn; He was, methinks, like that frail flower that comes Amid the nips and gusts of churlish March, Drinking pale beauty from sweet April's tears, Dead in the hem of May.
Zeal and duty are not slow;
For virtue's self may too much zeal. be had;
- With all the zeal
Spread out earth's. holiest records here,