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November.

The western sun withdraws the shorten'd day,
And humid evening, gliding o'er the sky,

In her chill progress, to the ground condensed
The vapours throws; where creeping waters ooze,
Where marshes stagnate, and where rivers wind,
Cluster the rolling fogs, and swim along

The dusky-mantled lawn.

THOMSON'S "SEASONS."

Were I as high as heaven above the plain,
And you, my Love, as humble and as low
As are the deepest bottoms of the main,
Wheresoe'er you were, with you my love should go.

Thomas Sylvestre.

Sweet, be not proud of those two eyes,
Which, star-like, sparkle in their skies.

November 2.

Love then to us did new souls give,

R. Herrick.

And in those souls did plant new powers,
Since when another life we live,

The breath we breathe is his, not ours.

William Cartwright.

Love is the blossom where there blows

Everything that lives or grows.

November 3.

I love a woman's eloquence,
So racy 'tis, and flowing;

Giles Fletcher.

And then her tongue's so nicely hung,
The least touch sets it going.

Harrison.

Sir, as I told you always, her beauty and her brain go

not together.

Shakespeare
(Cymbeline).

November 2.

November 3.

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