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Take this in good part, whatsover thou be,
All easy to fulfil:
The bounds unto my will.
Well-doing is my wealth;
While grace affordeth health. Souihuell.
Dryden, from Juvenal.
WIT. This fellow picks up wit, as pigeons pease, And utters it again when Jove doth please; He is wit's pedlar, and retails bis wares.- -Shakspere. You can't expect that they should be great wits, Who have small purses, they usually Sympathize together; wit is expensive, It must be dieted with delicacies, It must be suckled with the richest wines, Or else it will grow flat and dull.
Neville. Wit is much talked of, not to be defined, He that pretends to most, too, has least share.
Otway. True wit is nature to advantage dress’d; What oft was thought, but ne'er so well express’d; Something whose truth convinc'd at sight we find, That gives us back the image of our mind. As shades more sweetly recommend the light, So modest plainness sets off sprightly wit; For works may have more wit than does 'em good, As bodies perish through excess of blood. Pope.
There are, whom heaven has bless'd with store of wit
Prudence protects and guides us; wit betrays;
rays of wit gild wheresoe'er they strike,
Buckingham. All wit does but divert men from the road In which things vulgarly are understood, And force mistake and ignorance to own A better sense than commonly is known. Butler.
FARE thee well! yet think awhile,
Of one whose bosom bleeds to doubt thee;
WOE. He whose days
Jul woe are worn, The grace of his Creator doth despise, That will not use his gifts for thankless niggardize.
Spenser So many miseries have crazed my voice, That my woe-stricken tongue is still. --Shakspere. From the low prayer of want, and plaint of woe, Oh, never, never turn away thine ear! Forlorn in this bleak wilderness below, Ah! what were man should heaven refuse to hear? To others do, (the law is not severe,) What to thyself thou wishest to be done; Forgive thy foes, and love thy parents dear, And friends, and native land; nor these alone, All human woe and weal learn thou to make thine own.
Beattie. But what strange art, what magic can dispose The troubled mind to change its native woes.
Crabbe. Can it be true that day's refulgent orb, Throned in his life of light, the placid moon, Or silent stars, or aught that dwells in heaven, In human woe rejoices? No! it is man, Who, with unhallowed lips, would make the gods Bear the iniquity his heart conceived.
Dilnot Sladden. Alas! there is no chord in human life, Whose natural tone breathes not of woe!-there seems Even in boyhood, when the world is rife With buds and birds, with flowers and sunny beams Along our being's course, wherein it streams Some haunting fever of decay—some shade From whose destructive taint no aid redeems.
Is like the raging billows of the sea,
W. H. Prideaux.
WOMEN are frail, Aye, as the glasses where they view themselves; Which are as easy broke as they make forms. Women!-Help heaven! Men their creation mar In profiting by them. Nay, call us ten times frail; For we are soft as our complexions are, And credulous to false prints.
Shakspere. Such is the fate unhappy women find, And such the curse entailed upon our kind, That man, the lawless libertine, may rove Free and unquestion'd through the wilds of love; While woman, sense and nature's easy fool, If poor weak woman swerve from virtue's rule, If strongly charmed, she leave the thorny way, And in the softer paths of pleasure stray, Ruin ensues; reproach and endless shame; And one false step entirely damns her fame. In vain with tears the loss she may deplore; In vain look back to what she was before; She sets, like stars that fall, to rise no more.
Rowe. What story is not full of woman's falsehood? The sex is all a sea of wide destruction: We are vent'rous barks, that leave our home For those sure dangers which their smiles conceal. At first they draw us in with flattering looks Of summer calms, and a soft gale of sighs: Sometimes, like Syrens, charm us with their songs, Dance on the waves, and show their golden locks; But when the tempest comes, then, then they leave us, Or rather help the new calamity! And the whole storm is one injurious woman! The lightning, follow'd with a thunderbolt, Is marble-hearted woman. All the shelves, The faithless winds, blind rocks, and sinking sands, Are woman all! the wreck of wretched men. Lee.
The world was sad, the garden was a wild,