I'll turn two mincing steps

luto a manly stride; and speak of frays

For men (it is reported) dash aiu vapour Less on the field of battle than on paper.

To see him shine so brisk, and smell so sweet,

And talk so like a waiting gentlewoman

mark!)

And telling me, the sovereign'st thing on earth
Was parmacity, for an inward bruise;
And that it was great pity, so it was,
This villanous saltpetre should be digg'd
Out of the bowels of the harmless earth,
Which many a good tall fellow had destroy'd
So cowardly and but for these wild guns,
He would himself have been a soldier.

Shaks. Henry IV.

A gallant curtle-axe upon my thigh,
A boar-spear in my hand; and (in my heart
Lie there what hidden woman's fear there will)
We'll have a swashing and a martial outside;
As many other mannish cowards have,
That do outface it with their semblances.
Shaks. As you like it.

Here is a silly, stately style indeed!
The Turk that two and fifty kingdoms hath,
Writes not so tedious a style as this.

Daniel

Shaks. Cymbeline

Twee well with most, if books, that could engage
Their childhood, pleas'd them at a riper age;
The man approving what had charm'd the boy,
Would die at last in comfort, peace, and joy;
And not with curses on his art, who stole
The gem of truth from his unguarded soul.

Cowper. Books are men of higher stature, And the only men that speak aloud for future times to hear! Miss Barrett's Poems. Come let me make a sunny realm around thee, Of thought and beauty!-Here are books and flowers,

With spells to loose the fetters which hath bound thee,

The ravell'd evil of this world's feverish hours. Mrs. Hemans. The past but lives in words: a thousand ages Were blank, if books had not evok'd their ghosts, And kept the pole, unbodied shades to warn us From fleshless ips.

To all alike, may do a good by chance, But never out of judgment.

Drayten

Charles Sprague. What he has written seems to me no more Than I have thought a thousand times before.

Since brevity is the soul of wit, And tediousness the limbs and outward flourisnes, I will be brief.

Shaks. Hamlet

Willis.

Beyond this opiate control,

When the Dook charm its influence loses.

BRIBERY.

What! shall one of us,

There to mark forth his base corruption.

Middleton and Rowley's Fair Quarrel.

Petitions not sweetened With gold, are but unsavoury and oft refused; Or if received, are pocketed, not read. A suitor's swelling tears by the glowing beams Of choleric authority are dried up Before they fall, or if seen, never pitied.

But we must trust to virtue, not to fate;
That may protect, whom cruel stars will hate.
Sir W. Davenant's Distresses.
Thus, sometimes hath the brightest day a cloud,
And, after summer, ever more succeeds
Barren winter with his wrathful nipping cold;
So cares and joys abound, as seasons fleet.
Shaks. Henry VI
When men once reach their autumn, sickly joys
Fall off apace, as yellow leaves from trees,
At every little breath misfortune blows;
"Till left quite naked of their happiness,
In the chill blasts of winter they expire.
This is the common lot.

CALM.

Pure was the temp'rate air, an even calm Perpetual reign'd, save what the zephyrs bland Breath'd o'er the blue expanse.

Thomson's Seasons. Gradual sinks the breeze Into a perfect calm; that not a breath I heard to quiver thro' the closing woods, Or rustling turn the many twinkling leaves Of aspen tall. The uncurling floods, diffus'd In glassy breadth, seem through delusive lapse, Forgetful of their course. 'Tis silence all, And pleasing expectation.

Thomson's Seasons.

The wind breathed soft as lovers sigh, And oft renew'd scem'd oft to die, With breathless pause between.

O who with speech of war and woes, Would wish to break the soft repose Of such enchanting scene!

Scott's Lord of the Isles.

St. George's banner, broad and gay,
Now faded, as the fading ray
Less bright, and less, was flung;
The evening gale had scarce the power
To wave it on the donjon tower,
So heavily it hung.

The sea is like a silvery lake,
And o'er its calm the vessel glides
Gently as if it fear'd to wake

The slumbers of the silent tides.

Moor

Serenely my heart took the hue of the hour,
Its passions were sleeping, were mute as the dead,
And the spirit becalm'd but remember'd their
power,

As the billow the force of the gale that was fled!
Moore.

And all was stillness, save the sea-bird's cry,
And dolphin's leap, and little billow crost
By some low rock or shelve, that made it fret
Against the boundary it scarcely wet.

Byron's Don Juan.
So calm the waters scarcely seem to stray,
And yet they glide like happiness away.

When all the fiercer passions cease,

Byron's Lara.

Whate'er thy praises are; And so long without a parallel

Thy loveliness hath shone, That, followed like the tided moon, Thou movest as calmly on.

CANDOUR.

Crubbe

Willis