660 VICE. VICISSITUDE. Then, if by gathering woes oppressed But wait the great Apocalypse With humble hope and reverence lowly. Gerald Griffin, While virtue lends a zest to joy, But vice her foul Circean cup May medicate in vain: E'en in her mirth some sorrow lurks, In all her pleasures, pain. Since this, with voice from heaven, proclaims That He that rules above Doth on the side of virtue stand, Let fear be lost in love. C. C. Colton. VICISSITUDE. OH, sad vicissitude Of earthly things! to what untimely end Or rest be found in fortune's restless wheel. May. But there's a sure vicissitude below, Verse sweetens toil, however rude the sound; Young. Gifford. VICTORY. VILLANY. VIOLENCE. VICTORY. 'TIs not victory to win the field, As well instruct, as overcome our foe. "It was the English," Kaspar cried, 661 Gomersall. But things like that, you know, must be Southey. VILLANY. I LIKE not fair terms, and a villain's mind. Shakspere. Calm, thinking villains, whom no faith could fix, Pope. VIOLENCE. THESE violent delights have violent ends, And in the taste confounds the appetite. --Shakspere. He does mainly vary from my sense, Who thinks the empire gain'd by violence Terence. I'LL leave my son my virtuous deeds behind; Shakspere. Forgive me this my virtue: Shakspere. Virtue's a solid rock, whereat being aim'd Mortals, that would follow me, Beaumont. Milton. Virtue may be assail'd, but never hurt; For blessings ever wait on virtuous deeds, Congreve. Each must in virtue strive for to excel; Herrick. Shall ignorance of good and ill Gay. Virtue, the strength and beauty of the soul. Armstrong. Count all th' advantage prosperous vice attains, Pope. What nothing earthly gives or can destroy, The only amaranthine flower on earth Virtue on herself relying, Every passion hushed to rest, Loses every pain of dying In the hope of being blest. Virtue! how many as a lowly thing, Pope. Cowper. Goldsmith. Born of weak folly, scorn thee! but thy name Alone they know; upon thy soaring wing They'll fear to mount, nor could thy sacred flame Burn in their baser hearts: the biting thorn, The flinty crag, flowers hiding, strew thy field; Yet blest is he whose daring bides the scorn Of the frail, easy herd, and buckles on thy shield. Who says thy ways are bliss, trolls but a lay To lure the infant; if thy paths, to view, Were always pleasant, crime's worst sons would lay Their daggers at thy feet, and, from mere sloth Mrs. Maria Brooks pursue. THE day seems long, but night is odious; Him God vouchsafed To call by vision from his father's house, Milton. Visions on visions! how the moving throng, These bright remembrances on fancy press Buried enjoyments as I pass! The song Sung in the hushed vale's verdant loneliness; The storm, the sun, the rainbow, the vain guess Of notes heard in the distance; the advance Of bells upon the wind; the loveliness Of flowers unwithering in the sun's hot glance; The thousand hopes that high in youth's brisk pulses J. H. Wiffin. dance. The same and oh, how beautiful! the same T. K. Hervey. Then welcome to my lonely hours, W. Howitt. |