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Some write, confin'd by physic; some, by debt;
Some, for 't is Sunday; some, because 't is wet;
Another writes because his father writ,
And proves himself a bastard by his wit.


None but an author knows an author's cares,
Or Fancy's fondness for the child she bears.


Our doctor thus, with stuff'd sufficiency
Of all omnigenous omnisciency,
Began (as who would not begin,
That had like him so much within?)
To let it out in books of all sorts,
Folios, quartos, large and small sorts.


One hates an author that's all author, fellows
In foolscap uniform turn'd up with ink;

So very anxious, clever, fine and jealous,

One don't know what to say to them, or think, Unless to puff them with a pair of bellows;

Of coxcombry's worst coxcombs, e'en the pink Are preferable to these shreds of paper,

These unquench'd snuffings of the midnight taper. BYRON'S Beppo.


Perceivest thou not the process
of the year,
How the four seasons in four forms appear?
Like human life in every shape they wear:
Spring first, like infancy, shoots out her head,
With milky juice requiring to be fed. . . . .
Proceeding onward, whence the year began,
The summer grows adult, and ripens into man. . . .



Autumn succeeds, a sober, tepid age,
Nor froze with fear, nor boiling into rage;
Last, winter creeps along with tardy pace,
Sour is his front, and furrow'd is his face.

See, winter comes, to rule the varied year,
Sullen and sad, with all his rising train;
Vapours, and clouds, and storms.


THOMSON'S Seasons.

As yet the trembling year is unconfin'd,
And winter oft at eve resumes the breeze,

Chills the pale morn, and bids his driving sleets
Deform the day delightless.

THOMSON'S Seasons.

But see, the fading many-colour'd woods,
Shade deep'ning over shade, the country round

THOMSON'S Seasons.

From bright'ning fields of ether, fair disclos'd,
Child of the sun, refulgent Summer comes;
In pride of youth, and felt thro' nature's depth,
He comes, attended by the sultry hours,
And ever-fanning breezes on his way.

THOMSON'S Seasons.

O winter! ruler of the inverted year, . . . .
I love thee, all unlovely as thou seem'st,
And dreaded as thou art.


Where smiling Spring its earliest visit paid,
And parting Summer ling'ring blooms delay'd.

GOLDSMITH'S Deserted Village.
And winter, lingering, chills the lap of spring.

GOLDSMITH'S Traveller.

Fain would my muse the flowing treasure sing,
And humble glories of the youthful spring.


Where summer's beauty 'midst of winter stays,
And winter's coolness, spite of summer's rays.


Eternal Spring, with smiling verdure, here
Warms the mild air, and crowns the youthful year.


But mighty nature bounds as from her birth.
The sun is in the heavens, and life on earth;
Flowers in the valley, splendour in the beam,
Health in the gale, and freshness in the stream.


The merry May hath pleasant hours, and dreamily they


As if they floated, like the leaves, upon a silver tide;
The trees are full of crimson buds, the woods are full of


And the waters flow to music, like a tune with pleasant words.

The keen north-west, that heaps the drifted snow.


The sultry summer past, September comes,
Soft twilight of the slow declining year,
More sober than the buxom, blooming May,
And therefore less the favourite of the world;
But dearest month of all to pensive minds.

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The dead leaves strew the forest walk,
And wither'd are the pale wild flowers;
The frost hangs black'ning on the stalk,
The dew-drops fall in frozen showers.

The world leads round the seasons in a choir,
For ever changing, and for ever new,
Blending the grand, the beautiful, the gay,
The mournful and the tender, in one strain.

The gentle gales of Spring went by,
And fruits and flowers of summer die;
The autumn winds swept o'er the hill,
And winter's breath came cold and chill.




What scenes of delight, what sweet visions she brings
Of freshness, of gladness and mirth-

Of fair sunny glades where the buttercup springs,
Of cool, gushing fountains, of rose-tinted wings,
Of birds, bees and blossoms, all beautiful things,
Whose brightness rejoices the earth!


The bleak wind whistles -snow-showers, far and near,
Drift without echc to the whitening ground;
Autumn hath past away, and, cold and drear,
Winter stalks in, with frozen mantle bound.

Hark! through the dim woods dying

With a moan,

Faintly the winds are sighing;

Summer's gone!



First budding Spring appears, next Summer's heat,
Then Autumn's fruits, then Winter's cold and sleet.


Then rugged Winter his appearance makes,
Cloth'd in his cheerless robes of snow and frost,
And vegetation all the land forsakes,

And flowers decay, and all Spring's fruits are lost.


Shall we now

Contaminate our fingers with base bribes?
And sell the mighty space of our large honours.
For so much trash as may be grasped thus?
I'd rather be a dog, and bay the moon,

Than such a Roman.

The miser lives alone, abhorr'd by all,

Like a disease, yet cannot so be 'scaped,


But, canker-like, eats through the poor men's hearts
That live about him; never has commerce

With any, but to ruin them.

Of Age's avarice I cannot see

What colour, ground, or reason there can be;
Is it not folly, when the way we ride

Is short, for a long voyage to provide?
To avarice some title Youth may own,

reap in autumn what a spring had sown; And, with the providence of bees or ants,

Prevent with summer's plenty winter's wants.

But Age scarce sows, ere death stands by to reap,


And to a stranger's hand transfer the heap.


Who thinketh to buy villany with gold,

Shall ever find such faith so bought-so sold.

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