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Massinger. No body's healthful without exercise. Aleyn.
Where pain of unextinguished fire
Age's chief acts, and aims, are to grow wise;
The purest exercise of health,
Dryden. Ulysses, sole of all the victor train, An exile from his dear paternal coast, Deplored his absent queen and empire lost.
Pope, from Homer. An exile, ill in heart and frame,
A wanderer, weary of the way;-
On any heart, go where I may! Mrs. Osgood. But doth the exile's heart serenely there
In sunshine dwell? Ah! when was exile blest? When did bright scenes, clear heavens, or summer air Chase from his soul the fever of unrest?
Mrs. Hemans. 280
Formed to enjoy—with longings all repressed
Led by our spirit's law-life's first essay Is happiness! Still in the future blest,
The past forgot—we give our hearts a prey To expectation! Happier did we rest
And if not pleased, yet passive! our brief day Is quickly summed. Then leave thy hopes and sorrow To Him who gives and may withhold to-morrow.
Dr. W. Beattie.
EXPERIENCE. EXPERIENCE is by industry achiev’d, And perfected by the swift course of time.—Shakspere.
Some truths by reason are not to be tried;
'Tis greatly wise to talk with our past hours;
Our life indeed has bitterness enough
To change a loving nature into gall: Experience sews coarse patches on the stuff
Whose texture was originally all Smooth as the rose leaf's, and whose hues were bright
As are the colours of the weeping cloud When the sun smiles upon its tears.
Mrs. Lenox Conyngham.
With all the wonders of external grace,
Each verse so swells expressive of the woes,
'Tis in worldly accidents,
COMPARE her eyes,
Not to the moon, for they are changing never;
Not to the fire, for they consume not ever:-
Shakspere, The darts of love, like lightning, wound within, And, tho' they pierce it, never hurt the skin; They leave no marks behind them where they fly, Tho' through the tend’rest part of all, the eye.
Butler. And then her look-Oh, where's the heart so wise, Could, unbewilder’d, meet those matchless eyes? Quick, restless, strange, but exquisite withal, Like those of angels.
Moore. Her eye, (I'm very fond of handsome eyes) Was large and dark, suppressing half its fire Until she spoke; then, through its soft disguise, Flash'd an expression more of pride than ire, And love than either.
Those eyes, those eyes, how full of heaven they are,
When the calm twilight leaves the heaven most holy! Tell me, sweet eyes, from what divinest star Did ye drink in your liquid melancholy:
Tell me, beloved eyes! Bulwer.
Some praise the eyes they love to see,
As rivalling the western star;
A thousand firmaments afar. John Sterling.
Tickell. Flow on, flow on, fair fable's happy stream,
Vocal for aye with Eld's first music chaunt; Where, mirror'd far adown the crystal, gleam
The golden domes of Carduel and Romaunt! Still one last look on knighthood's peerless ring, On mooned Dream-land and the Dragon King.
FACE. A FACE that should content me wondrous well, .
Should not be fair, but lovely to behold, : With gladsome cheer, all grief for to expel;
With sober looks so would I that it should Speak without words, such words as none can tell;
The tress also should be of crisped gold, With wit and these perchance I might be tied, And knit again the knot that should not slide.
Sir T. Wyatt. If to her share some female errors fall, Look on her face, and you 'll forget them all.
There is no miniature
Yet even her tyranny had such a grace,