She, whom the spital-house, and ulcerous sores
Would cast the gorge at, this embalms and spices
To the April day again.

Timon of Athens-Shakspeare.

MCCCX.

Here's the place

Which men (for being poor) are sent to starve in,-
Rude remedy, I trow, for sore disease.

Within these walls, stifled by damp and stench,
Does hope's fair torch expire; and at the snuff,
Ere yet 'tis quite extinct, rude, wild, and wayward,
The desperate revelries of wild despair,

Kindling their hell-born cressets, light to deeds
That the poor captive would have died ere practised,
Till bondage sunk his soul to his condition.

MCCCXI.

The Prison, Act I.

Quality and title have such allurements, that hundreds are ready to give up all their own importance, to cringe, to flatter, to look little, and to pall every pleasure in constraint, merely to be among the great, though without the least hopes of improving their understanding, or sharing their generosity: they might be happy among their equals, but those are despised for company where they are despised in turn.-Goldsmith.

MCCCXII.

Next to obtaining wealth, or pow'r, or ease,
Most men affect in general to please:
Of this affection vanity's the source,
And vanity alone obstructs its course;

That telescope of fools, thro' which they spy
Merit remote, and think the object nigh.
The glass remov'd would each himself survey,
And in just scales his strength and weakness weigh,
Pursue the path for which he was design'd,
And to his proper force adapt his mind,
Scarce one but to some merit might pretend,
Perhaps might please, at least would not offend.

Congreve.

MCCCXIII.

Love's a mighty lord,

And hath so humbled me, as, I confess,
There is no woe to his correction,

Nor to his service, no such joy on earth!
Now, no discourse, except it be of love;
Now can I break my fast, dine, sup, and sleep,
Upon the very naked name of love.

MCCCXIV.

Shakspeare.

I think you ought to be well informed how much your husband's revenue amounts to, and be so good a computer as to keep within it that part of the management which falls to your share, and not to put yourself in the number of those politic ladies, who think they gain a great point when they have teazed their husbands to buy them a new equipage, a laced head, or a fine petticoat, without once considering what_long score remained unpaid to the butcher.-Swift's Letter to a Young Lady.

MCCCXV.

Nor are we ignorant how noble minds
Suffer too much through those indignities
Which time 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.

MCCCXVI.

Ben Jonson.

Nat Lee's thoughts are wonderfully suited for tragedy, but frequently lost in such a crowd of words, that it is hard to see the beauty of them. There is infinite fire in his works, but so involved in smoke, that it does not appear in half its lustre.-Addison.

MCCCXVII.

He cannot be a perfect man,

Not being tried, and tutor'd in the world:
Experience is by industry achieved,

And perfected by the swift course of time.

Shakspeare.

MCCCXVIII.

It is dangerous for mortal beauty, or terrestrial virtue, to be examined by too strong a light. The torch of truth shows much that we can not, and all that we would not see. In a face dimpled with smiles, it has often discovered malevolence and envy, and detected under jewels and brocade, the frightful forms of poverty and distress. A fine hand of cards have changed before it into a thousand spectres of sickness, misery, and vexation; and immense sums of money, while the winner counted them with transport, have, at the first glimpse of this unwelcome lustre, vanished from before him.Mulso.

MCCCXIX.

He strikes no coin, 'tis true, but coins new phrases, And vends them forth as knaves vend gilded counters, Which wise men scorn, and fools accept in payment. bid Play.

MCCCXX.

O you gods! what a number

Of men eat Timon, and he sees them not!
It grieves me, to see so many dip their meat
In one man's blood; and all the madness is,
He cheers them up too.

I wonder, men dare trust themselves with men!
Methinks they should invite them without knives;
Good for their meat, and safer for their lives.
There's much example for 't: the fellow, that
Sits next him now, parts bread with him, and pledges
The breath of him in undivided draught,

Is the readiest man to kill him: It has been proved.
If I

Were a huge man, I should fear to drink at meals;
Lest they should spy my windpipe's dangerous notes:
Great men should drink with harness on their throats.
Timon of Athens-Shakspeare.

MCCCXXI.

The study of truth is perpetually joined with the love of virtue; for there's no virtue which derives not

its original from truth; as, on the contrary, there is no vice which has not its beginning from a lie. Truth is the foundation of all knowledge, and the cement of all societies.-Casaubon.

MCCCXXII.

Our cider and Perry

Make a man mad, but not merry;
It makes people windmill-pated,
And with crackers sophisticated;
And your hops, yeast and malt,
When they're mingled together,
Makes our fancies to halt
Or reel any whither.

It stuffs up our brains with froth and with yeast,
That if one would write but a verse for a bellman,
He must study till Christmas for an eight shilling jest,
These liquors won't raise, but drown and o'erwhelm
On Canary-Brome.

man.

MCCCXXIII.

Fear guides more to their duty than gratitude: for one man who is virtuous from the love of virtue, from the obligation which he thinks he lies under to the Giver of all, there are ten thousand who are good only from their apprehensions of punishment.—Goldsmith.

MCCCXXIV.

Well the learned and the judicious know,
That satire scorns to stoop so meanly low,
As any one abstracted fop to show.

For, as when painters form a matchless face,

They from each fair one catch some different grace;
And shining features in one portrait blend,

To which no single beauty must pretend:

So poets oft do in one piece expose

Whole belles assemblees of coquets and beaux.

Epilogue to the Way of the World-Congreve.

MCCCXXV.

What a piece of work is man! How noble in reason! how infinite in faculties! in form, in moving, how exVOL. II.

Ff

press and aducts Ir action, how like an angel! in appretessa und the beauty of the world! muas: And yet, to me, what is this

L'OSE

Senkespeare.

Ty>ass="me, eres, but not mine heart.

Ben Jonson