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"Tis from high life high characters are drawn ;
A saint in crape is twice a saint in lawn;
A judge is just, a chancellor juster still;

A gown-man, learn'd; a bishop what you will;
Wise, if a minister; but if a king,

More wise, more learn'd, more just, more everything.

Many a Prince is worse,

Who, proud of pedigree, is poor of purse.


POPE'S Moral Essays.

How poor are all hereditary honours,
Those poor possessions from another's deeds,
Unless our own just virtues form our title,
And give a sanction to our fond assumptions!

Boast not these titles of your ancestors,


Brave youths; they're their possessions, not your own:
When your own virtues equall'd have their names,

"T will be but fair to lean upon their fames,
For they are strong supporters; but, till then
The greatest are but growing gentlemen.

Superior worth your rank requires;
For that, mankind reveres your sires;
If you degenerate from your race,
Their merit heightens your disgrace.

He stands for fame on his forefathers' feet,
By heraldry proved valiant or discreet!

E'en to the dullest peasant standing by,
Who fasten'd still on him a wandering eye,
He seem'd the master spirit of the land.


GAY'S Fables



Even to the delicacy of their hands
There was resemblance, such as true blood wears.

BYRON'S Don Juan.

"Your ancient house?" No more: I cannot see The wondrous merits of a pedigree:

-Nor of a proud display

Of smoky ancestors in wax and clay.

GIFFORD'S Juvenal.

What boots it on the lineal tree to trace,

Through many a branch, the founders of our race-
Time-honoured chiefs-if, in their right, we give

A loose to vice, and like low villains live?

GIFFORD'S Juvenal Fond man! though all the honours of your line Bedeck your halls, and round your galleries shine In proud display, yet take this truth from meVirtue alone is true nobility!

GIFFORD'S Juvenal.

How shall we call those noble, who disgrace
Their lineage, proud of an illustrious race?
Who seek to shine by borrow'd lights alone,
Nor with their fathers' glories blend their own?

Whence his name

GIFFORD'S Juvenal.

And lineage long, it suits me not to say;

Suffice it that, perchance, they were of fame,
And had been glorious in another day.

BYRON'S Childe Harold.


Full many mischiefs follow cruel wrath,
Abhorred bloodshed, and tumultuous strife,
Unmanly murder, and unthrifty scathe,
Bitter despite, with rancour's rusty knife,
And fretting grief-the enemy of life.

SPENSER'S Fairy Queen.



Madness and anger differ but in this:
This is short madness, that long anger is.

My rage is not malicious; like a spark

Of fire by steel enforc'd out of a flint,
It is no sooner kindled, but extinct.



O that my tongue were in the thunder's mouth!
Then with a passion would I shake the world.


Anger is like

A full hot horse, who being allow'd his way,
Self-mettle tires him.


Come not between the dragon and his wrath.


Heaven has no rage like love to hatred turn'd.


Those hearts that start at once into a blaze,
And open all their rage,
like summer storms
At once discharg'd, grow cool again and calm.

When anger rushes unrestrain'd to action,
Like a hot steed it stumbles in its way:


The man of thougnt strikes deepest, and strikes safest.

Then flash'd the living lightning from her eyes,

And screams of horror rend the vaulted skies;

Not louder shrieks to pitying heaven are cast,


When husbands, or when lap-dogs, breathe their last;
Or when rich china vessels, fallen from high,
In glittering dust and painted fragments lie.


From loveless youth to unrespected age,
No passion gratified, except her rage.


And to be wroth with one we love,

Doth work like madness in the brain.

Of all bad things by which mankind are curs'd,
Their own bad tempers surely are the worst.



And her brow clear'd, but not her troubled eye; 'The wind was down, but still the sea ran high.

BYRON'S Don Juan

Patience!-Hence-that word was made
For brutes of burden, not for birds of prey;
Preach it to mortals of a dust like thine,—
I am not of thine order.

All furious as a favour'd child

BYRON'S Manfred.

Balk'd of its wish; or, fiercer still,

A woman piqued, who has her will.

BYRON'S Mazeppa.

For his was not that blind, capricious rage,
A word can kindle and a word assuage;
But the deep working of a soul unmix'd
With aught of pity, where its wrath had fix'd.


His brow was like the deep when tempest-tost.

BYRON'S Vision of Judgment.

Foil'd, bleeding, breathless, furious to the last.

BYRON'S Childe Harold.

The ocean lash'd to fury loud,
Its high waves mingling with the cloud,

Is peaceful, sweet serenity

To anger's dark and troubled sea.


.At this she bristled up with ire-
Her bosom heav'd-her eye glanc'd fire;
The blush that late suffus'd her face,

To deeper crimson now gave place;



Those eyes, that late were bright with joy,
Glared now like lightning to destroy;
And she with such resentment burn'd

As only woman feels when scorn'd.



But they do want the quick discerning power,
Which doth in man the erring sense correct;
Therefore the bee did suck the painted flower,
And birds, of grapes the cunning shadow peck'd.
DAVIES' Immortality of the Soul.

The subtle dog scours, with sagacious nose,

Along the field, and snuffs each breeze that blows;
Against the wind he takes his prudent way,
While the strong gale directs him to the prey.
Now the warm scent assures the covey near;
He treads with caution, and he pants with fear:
Then close to ground in expectation lies,
Till in the snare the fluttering covey rise.

GAY'S Rural Sports.

A colt, whose eyeballs flamed with ire,
Elate with strength and youthful fire.

The lion is, beyond dispute,
Allow'd the most majestic brute;
His valour and his generous mind
Prove him superior of his kind.

Had fate a kinder lot assign'd,
And form'd me of the lap-dog kind,
I then, in higher life employ'd,
Had indolence and ease enjoy'd;

GAY's Fables.

GAY'S Fables.

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