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way sufficient for the many great claims which are hourly made upon it.-Sterne.
MCCXCVII. The happiness of London is not to be conceived but by those who have been in it. I will venture to say, there are more learning and science within the circumference of ten miles from where we now sit, than in all the rest of the kingdom.-Johnson.
MCCXCIX. 'Twas never merry world, since, of two usuries, the merriest was put down, and the worser allow'd by order of a law, a furr'd gown to keep him warm; and furred with fox and lamb-skins too, to signify, that craft, being richer than innocency, stands for the facing. - Shakspeare.
MCCC. It is in the politic, as in the human, constitution; if the limbs grow too large for the body, their size, instead of improving, will diminish the vigour of the whole. The colonies should always bear an exact proportion to the mother country; when they grow. popu. lous, they grow powerful, and by becoming powerful, they become independent also. Thus, subordination is destroyed, and a country swallowed up in the extent of its own dominions.--Goldsmith.
MCCCI. It is madness to make Fortune the mistress of events, because in herself she is nothing, but is ruled by prudence.-Dryden.
Neither too easy nor too hard:
MCCCIII. Though selfishness hath defiled the whole man, yet sensual pleasure is the chief part of its interest, and therefore, by the senses it commonly works, and these are the doors and the windows by which iniquity entereth into the soul.-Baxter.
MCCCIV. Such are the vicissitudes of the world, through all its parts, that day and night, labour and rest, hurry and retirement, endear each other; such are the changes that keep the mind in action; we desire, we pursue, we obtain, we are satiated: we desire something else, and begin a new pursuit.-Johnson.
- 0, man, proud man! Dress'd in a little brief authority; Most ignorant of what he's most assured, His glassy essence,-like an angry ape, Plays such fantastic tricks before high heaven, As makes the angels weep; who with our spleens, Would all themselves laugh mortal. Shakspeare.
MCCCVI. Prizes would be for lags of slowest pace, Were cripples made the judges of the race. Despise those drones, who praise, while they accuse, The too much vigour of your youthful muse. That humbler style, which they your virtue make, Is in your power; you need but stoop and take. Your beauteous images must be allowed By all, but some vile poets in the crowd. But how shall any sign-post dauber know The worth of Titian, or of Angelo? Hard features every bungler can command; To draw true beauty, shews a master's hand.
Dryden--to Nat. Lees
J. Shirley. MCCCVIII. Marriage is the strictest tie of perpetual friendship, and there can be no friendship without confidence, and no confidence without integrity; and he must expect to be wretched, who pays to beauty, riches, or politeness, that regard which only virtue and piety can claim.Johnson.
MCCCIX. Who dares, who dares, In purity of manhood stand upright, And say, That man's a flatterer. If one be, So are they all; for every grize of fortune Is smooth'd by that below: the learned pate Ducks to the golden fool: all is oblique; There's nothing level in our cursed natures, But direct villany. Therefore, be abhorr'd All feasts, societies, and throngs of men! His semblable, yea, himself, Timon disdains: Destruction fang mankind!- Earth, yield me roots! Who seeks for better of thee, sauce his palate With thy most operant poison! What is here? Gold? yellow, glittering, precious gold? No, gods, I am no idle votarist. Roots, you clear heavens! Thus much of this, will make black, white; foul, fair; Wrong, right; base, noble; old, young; coward, valiant. Ha, you gods! Why this? What this, you gods? Why
[this Will lug your priests and servants from your sides; Pluck stout men's pillows from below their heads: This yellow slave Will knit and break religions: bless the accursed; Make the hoar leprosy adored; place thieves, And give them title, knee, and approbation, With senators on the bench; this is it, Tbat makes the wappen'd widow wed again;
She, whom the spital-house, and ulcerous sores
Timon of Athens-Shakspeare.
Here's the place Which men (for being poor) are sent to starve in,Rude remedy, I trow, for sore disease. Within these walls, stified by damp and stench, Does hope's fair torch expire; and at the snuft, 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.
The Prison, Act I.
MCCCXI. 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.
Shakspeare. MCCCXIV. 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.
Ben Jonson. MCCCXVI. 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.