Accounting woman's beauties sugared baits,
Which never catch but fools with their deceits.

But our desires, tyrannical extortion

Wm. Browne.

Doth force us there to set our chief delightfulness, Where but a baiting-place is all our portion.

Sir P. Sidney.

Fruit like that

Which grew in paradise, the bait of Eve,

Used by the tempter.

Milton.

Sweet words I grant, baits and allurements sweet, But greatest hopes of greatest crosses meet.

Fairfax.

How are the sex improved in amorous arts!
What new found snares they bait for human hearts!

Prior.

BALM-BALMY.

OH, balmy breath! that dost almost persuade
Justice to break her sword.

Shakspere.

Those rich perfumes which from the happy shore, The winds upon their balmy wings conveyed, Whose gentle sweetness first the world betrayed.

Dryden.

Would'st thou from sorrow find a sweet relief,
Or is thy heart oppressed with woe untold?
Balm would'st thou gather for corroding grief?
Pour blessings round thee like a shower of gold.
Charles Wilcox.

In the breath of morn is balm,
Balmy are the dews of even;
In the stillness and the calm,

Balm for human woe is given.

Egone.

BANISHMENT.

BANISH'D! the damned use that word in hell;
Howlings attend it; how, hast thou the heart
To mangle me with that word-banishment?

We banish you our territories;

You, cousin Hereford, on pain of death,

Shakspere.

Till twice five summers have enriched our fields, Shall not revisit our fair dominions,

But tread the stranger paths of banisment.

Shakspere. Flies may do this, when I from this must fly; They are free men, but I am banished.

Shakspere.

I've stoopt my neck under your injuries,
And sigh'd my English breath in foreign lands,
Eating the bitter bread of banishment;
While you have fed upon my signories;
Disparked my parks, and felled my forest woods;
From mine own windows torn my household-coat,
Razed out my impress; leaving me no sign,
Save men's opinions, and my living blood,
To show the world I am a gentleman.

Banish me!

Banish your dotage; banish usury,
That makes the senate ugly.

Shakspere.

Shakspere.

Round the wide world in banishment we roam,
Forced from our pleasing field and native home.

Successless all her soft caresses prove,

Dryden.

To banish from his breast his country's love.-Pope.

'Tis not absence to be far,

But to abhor is to absent;

To those who in disfavour are,

Sight itself is banishment.

From the Spanish of Mendoza.

78

BANK. BARD.

BANK-BANKERS.

By powerful charms of gold and silver led,
The Lombard bankers and the change to waste.

Whole droves of lenders crowd the banker's doors To call in money.

Dryden.

'Tis happy when our streams of knowledge grow To fill their banks, but not to overflow. Denham.

The bold encroaches on the deep,

Gain by degrees huge tracts of land;
Till Neptune, with one general sweep,
Turns all again to barren strand.
The multitude's capricious pranks
Are said to represent the seas;
Which breaking bankers and the banks,
Rescue their own whene'er they please.

We want our money on the nail,
The banker's ruined if he pays;
They seem to act the ancient tale,
The birds are met to strip the jays.

Swift.

So powerful are a banker's bills

Where creditors demand their due;

They break up counters, doors, and tills,
And leave the empty chests in view.

Swift.

BARD.

AND many bards, that to the trembling chord
Can tune their timely voices cunningly.

Spenser.

The bard who first adorn'd our native tongue,
Tuned to the British lyre this ancient song,
Which Homer might without a blush rehearse.

On a rock, whose haughty brow
Frowns o'er old Conway's foaming flood,

Dryden.

Robed in the sable garb of woe, With haggard eyes the poet stood; (Loose his beard, and hoary hair

Stream'd like a meteor to the troubled air;) And, with a master's hand, and prophet's fire, Struck the deep sorrows of his lyre.

All to nothing swiftly tend,
All waste, all vanish, all have end;
All sink, all wither; rose soon fadeth,
Palfrey stumbleth, cloth abraideth,
Man dies, sword rusteth; every thing
Doth time and change to ruin bring.
Then listen well to what I say,
Listen soothly, clerk and lay;

For when death hath driven ye down,
Whither wendeth your renown?
If the bard no record give,
Scantly shall your praises live.

1.-I am a bard

Gray.

From the French of Wace.

2.-Peace, peace! I know you well,

I've heard your verses by the hour, sir, twanged
To rascal viols, through rogues' noses-pah!

Just at my hour of sleep. I'll have thee hanged
For scurvy rhymes. Thou 'st spread a plague so foul,
So foolish, that our women learn to spell;

Nay, kings decipher, and our lords are mad
Until they can write nonsense.

Till thou cam'st

We were all pure in happy ignorance,

Content-with love, sport, wine; and thought of nothing, Save what should be for dinner.

Procter.

BARGAIN.

I'LL give thrice so much land

To any well-deserving friend;

But in the way of bargain, mark ye now,

I'll cavil on the ninth part of a hair.

Shakspere.

Henry is able to enrich his queen;
And not to seek a queen to make him rich.
So worthless peasants bargain for their wives,
As market men for oxen, sheep, or horses.

The age of bargaining, said Burke,
Has come to-day, the turbaned Turk
Is England's friend and fast ally.

Shakspere.

Halleck.

BARGE.

THE barge she sat in, like a burnished throne,
Burned on the water: the poop was beaten gold;
Purple the sails, and so perfumed, that

The winds were love-sick with them: the oars were

silver,

Which to the time of flutes kept stroke, and made
The water which they beat, to follow faster,
As amorous of the strokes. * * * At the helm
A seeming mermaid steers; the silken tackle
Swells with the touches of these flower-soft hands,
That yarely frame the office. From the barge
A strange invisible perfume hits the sense
Of the adjacent wharfs.

Shakspere.

Placed in a gilded barge,
Proud with the burden of so sweet a charge;
With painted oars the youths began to sweep
Neptune's smooth face.

Waller.

BARK.

How like a younker, or a prodigal,
The scarfed bark puts from her native bay,
Hugg'd and embraced by the strumpet-wind!
How like a prodigal doth she return;
With over-weather'd ribs, and ragged sails,
Lean, rent, and beggar'd by the strumpet-wind!

Shakspere.