Alexander's Feast. Line 96.

For pity melts the mind to love.1

Softly sweet, in Lydian measures,
Soon he sooth'd his soul to pleasures.
War, he sung, is toil and trouble;
Honour but an empty bubble;

Never ending, still beginning,
Fighting still, and still destroying.

If all the world be worth the winning, Think, oh think it worth enjoying: Lovely Thais sits beside thee,

Take the good the gods provide thee.

Line 97.

Sigh'd and look'd, and sigh'd again.

Line 120.

And, like another Helen, fir'd another Troy.

Line 154.

Could swell the soul to rage, or kindle soft desire.

Line 160.

Fool, not to know that love endures no tie,
And Jove but laughs at lovers' perjury.2

Palamon and Arcite. Book ii. Line 758.

For Art may err, but Nature cannot miss.

The Cock and the Fox. Line 452.

And that one hunting, which the Devil design'd
For one fair female, lost him half the kind.

Theodore and Honoria. Line 227.

Old as I am, for ladies' love unfit,

The power of beauty I remember yet.

1 See Beaumont and Fletcher, page 198.

Cymon and Iphigenia. Line 1.

2 This proverb Dryden repeats in Amphitryon, act i. sc. 2. See Shakespeare, page 106.

He trudg'd along unknowing what he sought,
And whistled as he went, for want of thought.

When beauty fires the blood, how love exalts the mind! Cymon and Iphigenia. Line 41.

Line 84.

The fool of nature stood with stupid eyes

And gaping mouth, that testified surprise.

Line 107.

Love taught him shame; and shame, with love at strife, Soon taught the sweet civilities of life.

Line 133.

She hugg'd the offender, and forgave the offence:
Sex to the last.1

Line 367.

And raw in fields the rude militia swarms,
Mouths without hands; maintain'd at vast expense,
In peace a charge, in war a weak defence;
Stout once a month they march, a blustering band,
And ever but in times of need at hand.

Line 400.

Of seeming arms to make a short essay,
Then hasten to be drunk, the business of the day.

Happy who in his verse can gently steer
From grave to light, from pleasant to severe."

Line 407.

The Art of Poetry. Canto i. Line 75.

Happy the man, and happy he alone,
He who can call to-day his own;
He who, secure within, can say,

To-morrow, do thy worst, for I have liv'd to-day.

Imitation of Horace. Book iii. Ode 29, Line 65

1 And love the offender, yet detest the offence. - POPE: Eloisa to Abelard,

line 192.

2 Heureux qui, dans ses vers, sait d'une voix légère,
Passer du grave au doux, du plaisant au sévère.

BOILEAU: L'Art Poétique, chant 1er.

Formed by thy converse, happily to steer
From grave to gay, from lively to severe.

POPE: Essay on Man, epistle iv. line 379.

8 Serenely full, the epicure would say,
Fate cannot harm me; I have dined to-day.

SYDNEY SMITH: Recipe for Salad.

Not heaven itself upon

the past has power;

But what has been, has been, and I have had my hour. Imitation of Horace. Book iii. Ode 29, Line 71.

I can enjoy her while she's kind;

But when she dances in the wind,

And shakes the wings and will not stay,

I puff the prostitute away.

And virtue, though in rags, will keep me warm.

Arms and the man I sing, who, forced by fate
And haughty Juno's unrelenting hate.

Line 81.

Line 87.

Virgil, Eneid. Line 1.

And new-laid eggs, which Baucis' busy care
Turn'd by a gentle fire and roasted rare.1

Ovid, Metamorphoses, Book viii. Baucis and Philemon, Line 97.

Ill habits gather by unseen degrees, —

As brooks make rivers, rivers run to seas.

Book xv. The Worship of Esculapius, Line 155.

She knows her man, and when you rant and swear,
Can draw you to her with a single hair.2

Persius. Satire v. Line 246.

Look round the habitable world: how few
Know their own good, or knowing it, pursue.

Juvenal. Satire x.

Our souls sit close and silently within,
And their own web from their own entrails spin;
And when eyes meet far off, our sense is such,
That, spider-like, we feel the tenderest touch.

8

Mariage à la Mode. Act ii. Sc. 1.

Thespis, the first professor of our art,
At country wakes sung ballads from a cart.

Prologue to Lee's Sophonisba.

1 Our scanty mutton scrags on Fridays, and rather more savoury, but grudging, portions of the same flesh, rotten-roasted or rare, on the Tuesdays.-CHARLES LAMB: Christ's Hospital five-and-thirty Years Ago.

2 See Burton, page 191.

8 See Davies, page 176.

Errors, like straws, upon the surface flow;

He who would search for pearls must dive below.

All for Love. Prologue.

Men are but children of a larger growth.

Act iv. Sc. 1.

Your ignorance is the mother of your devotion to me.1

The Maiden Queen. Act i. Sc 2.

Burn daylight.

Act ii. Sc. 1.

I am resolved to grow fat, and look young till forty.2

But Shakespeare's magic could not copied be;
Within that circle none durst walk but he.

Act iii. Sc. 1.

The Tempest. Prologue.

I am as free as Nature first made man,
Ere the base laws of servitude began,
When wild in woods the noble savage ran.

The Conquest of Granada. Part i. Act i. Sc. 1.

Forgiveness to the injured does belong;
But they ne'er pardon who have done the wrong.

What precious drops are those

8

Part ii. Act i. Sc. 2.

Which silently each other's track pursue,
Bright as young diamonds in their infant dew?

Act iii. Sc. 1.

Fame then was cheap, and the first comer sped;
And they have kept it since by being dead.

1 See Burton, page 193.

2 Fat, fair, and forty. - SCOTT: St. Ronan's Well, chap. vii. Mrs. Trench, in a letter, Feb. 18, 1816, writes: "Lord to marry Lady

Crescent."

Epilogue.

is going

a fat, fair, and fifty card-playing resident of the

8 Quos læserunt et oderunt (Whom they have injured they also hate). SENECA: De Ira, lib. ii. cap. 33.

Proprium humani ingenii est odisse quem læseris (It belongs to human nature to hate those you have injured). — TACITUS: Agricola, 42. 4.

Chi fa ingiuria non perdona mai (He never pardons those he injures). — Italian Proverb.

Death in itself is nothing; but we fear

To be we know not what, we know not where.
Aurengzebe. Act iv. Sc. 1

When I consider life, 't is all a cheat.
Yet fool'd with hope, men favour the deceit;
Trust on, and think to-morrow will repay.
To-morrow's falser than the former day;
Lies worse, and while it says we shall be blest
With some new joys, cuts off what we possest.
Strange cozenage! none would live past years again,
Yet all hope pleasure in what yet remain;1
And from the dregs of life think to receive
What the first sprightly running could not give.

Ibid.

'Tis not for nothing that we life pursue;
It pays our hopes with something still that's new.

Ibid.

Of no distemper, of no blast he died,
But fell like autumn fruit that mellow'd long, —
Even wonder'd at, because he dropp'd no sooner.
Fate seem'd to wind him up for fourscore years,
Yet freshly ran he on ten winters more;
Till like a clock worn out with eating time,
The wheels of weary life at last stood still.
She, though in full-blown flower of glorious beauty,
Grows cold even in the summer of her age.

Act iv. Sc. 1.

Ibid.

1 There are not eight finer lines in Lucretius - MACAULAY: History of England, chap. xviii.

2 Whatever is, is right. - POPE: Essay on Man, epistle i. line 289.

8 A green old age unconscious of decay. - POPE: The Iliad, book xxiii. line 929.