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With which I charge my page;
Gay. Time! thou vicegerent of eternity, Thou tyrant over all-sky, earth, and sea; Relentless, each thou crushest in its hour, Man, and his works, brute, blushing fruit and flower, To feed earth's lord omnipotent, the worm.
T. L. Merritt What is life? like a flower, with the bane in its bosom; To-day full of promise, to-morrow it dies. And health? like a dew-drop, that, hung in its blosson, Survives but a night, and exhales to the skies. For oft, in the bud that is brightest and fairest, The seeds of the canker in embryo lurk; And oft at the root of the flower that is rarest, Secure in its ambush, the worm is at work.
-Thus, Indian like,
Randolp. For look again on the past years ;-behold,
Flown, like the nightmare's hideous shapes, awa', Full many a horrible worship, that of old, Held, o'er the shuddering realms, unquestioned sws.
W. C. Bryat.
WORTH-WORTHINESS. He is not worthy of the honey-comb, That shuns the hive because the bees have stings.
Shakspere. Nor are we ignorant how noble minds Suffer too much through those indignities Which times and vicious persons cast on them. Ourself have ever vowed to esteem As virtue for itself, so fortune, base; Who's first in worth, the same be first in place.
Ben Jonson. Honour and shame from no condition rise; Act well your part, there all the honour lies. Fortune in men has some small difference made, One flaunts in rags, one flutters in brocade; The cobbler apron'd, and the parson gowy’d, The friar hooded, and the monarch crown'd. “What differ more,” you cry, “than crown and cowl,” I'll tell you friend! -a wise man and a fool. You 'll find, if once the monarch acts the monk, Or, cobbler-like, the parson will be drunk, Worth makes the man, the want of it the fellow, The rest is all but leather and prunella. Pope.
Then let us pray that come it may,
As come it will for a' that,
May hear the gree and a' that,
It's coming yet for a' that,
Sir E. Brydges.
Shelley, from Goethe.
Abhorred bloodshed, and tumultuous strife,
Bitter despite, with rancour's rusty knife,
At this the knight grew high in wrath,
And life is thorny, and youth is vain;
Not so much honouring thee,
It could not wither'd be.
And send'st it back to me,
The pride of every grove I chose,
The violet sweet and lily fair,
To deck my charming Chloe's hair.
Upon her brow the various wreath;
Gascoigne. Fled are the charms that graced that ivory brow, Where smiled a dimple, gapes a wrinkle now.
Robert T. Pain.
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 '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.