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ANATOMY. Oh, that my tongue were in the thunder's mouth! Then with a passion I would shake the world, And rouse from sleep that fell anatomy, Which cannot hear a feeble lady's voice.
Shakspere. They brought one Pinch, a hungry, lean-faced villain, A mere anatomy, a mountebank, A threadbare juggler, and a fortune-teller, A needy, hollow-eyed, sharp-looking wretch, A living dead man.
Shakspere. Hence, when anatomists discourse, How like brute organs are to ours; They grant, if higher powers think fit, A bear might soon be made a wit; And that, for anything in nature, Pigs might squeak love odes, dogs bark satire.
ANCESTRY. 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.
Ben Jonson. I have no urns, no dusty monuments; No broken images of ancestors, Wanting an ear or nose; no forged tables Of long descents, to boast false honours from.
Obscure! why prithee what am I? I knew
It is, indeed, a blessing, when the virtues
“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.
To come to succour us that succour want?
The flitting skies, like fiying pursuivant,
Against foul fiends to aid us militant?
And their bright squadrons round about us plant;
Spenser. Heaven bless thee! Thou hast the sweetest face I ever looked on; For, as I have a soul, she is an angel. Shakspere. Thus they in heaven, above the starry sphere, Their happy hours in joy and hymning spent.—Milton. Angels, contented with their fame in heaven, Seek not the praise of men.
Milton. My fancy formed thee of angelic kind, Some emanation of the all-beauteous mind. Pope. Are ye for ever to your skies departed?
Oh! will ye visit this dim world no more? Ye whose bright wings a solemn splendour darted Through Eden's fresh and flowery shades of yore!
It is a beautiful, a blessed belief,
How sweet it were, if without feeble fright,
Sir W. Davenant.
Anger is like
Give him no breath, but now Make boot of his distraction: never anger Made good guard for itself.
Anger's my meat; I sup upon myself,
Be calm in arguing; for fierceness makes
Error a fault, and truth discourtesy: Why should I feel another man's mistakes,
More than his sickness or his poverty? In love I should, but anger is not love, Nor wisdom either; therefore gently move.—Herbert.
Anger in hasty words and blows,
Madness and anger differ but in this,
Savage. Next Anger rushed, his eyes on fire,
In lightnings owned his secret stings,
Collins. Go to the bee! and thence bring home, (Worth all the treasures of her comb,)
An antidote against rash strife:
The ocean lashed to fury loud,
J. W. Eastburn.
Shakspere. Let others freeze with angling reeds, And cut their legs with sticks and weeds, Or treacherously poor fish beset With strangling snares or windowy net; Let coarse bold hands from slimy nest The bedded fish in banks outwrest; Let curious traitors sleeve silk flies, Bewitch poor fishes' wandering eyes; For thee thou need'st no such deceit, For thou thyself art thine own bait; That fish that is not catched thereby, Alas! is wiser far than I.
In genial spring, beneath the quiv’ring shade,
He, like a patient angler, ere he struck,
I in these flowery meads would be;
And angling too, that solitary vice,