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O wherefore should I busk my head?
Or wherefore should I kame my hair?
my true-love's forsaken me,


And says he'll never love me mair.

Now Arthur Seat sall be my bed:

The sheets shall ne'er be prest by me:
Saint Anton's Well sall be my drink,
Since my true-love's forsaken me.
Marti'mas wind, when wilt thou blaw
And shake the green leaves aff the tree?
O gentle death, when wilt thou come ?
For of my life I am wearie.



PHILOSOPHICAL happiness is to want little; civil or vulgar happiness is to want much, and to enjoy much.*


To be happy, the passion must be cheerful and gay, not gloomy and melancholy. A propensity to hope and joy is real riches; one to fear and sorrow, real poverty.


TRUE happiness is of a retired nature, and an enemy to pomp and noise; it arises, in the first place, from the enjoyment of one's self; and in the next, from the friendship and conversation of a few select companions.

Spectator, No. 15.

HAPPINESS is the fruit of a man's own care and industry, as it consists in the goodness of his dispositions, his inclinations, and his actions.


THE human mind, in proportion as it is deprived of external resources, sedulously labours to find within itself the means of

*This gives a different turn to the reflections of the wise man and the fool. The first endeavours to shine in himself, and the last to outshine others. The first is humbled by the sense of his own infirmities, the last is lifted up by the discovery of those which he observes in other men. The wise man considers what he wants, and the fool what he abounds in. The wise man is happy when he gains his own approbation, and the fool when he recommends himself to the applause of those about him.


happiness, learns to rely with confidence on its own exertions, and gains with greater certainty the power of being happy.


THAT all who are happy are equally happy, is not true. A peasant and a philosopher may be equally satisfied, but not equally happy. Happiness consists in the multiplicity of agreeable consciousness. A peasant has not capacity for having equal happiness with a philosopher. This question was very happily illustrated by the Rev. Mr. Robert Brown, at Utrecht: “A small drinking-glass and a large one," said he, "may be equally full, but a large one holds more than the small.”


THE haunts of happiness are varied and rather unaccountable, but I have more often* seen her among little children, and home firesides, and in country houses, than any where else,—at least I think so.


How distant oft the thing we dote on most,
Than that for which we dote-felicity!

YOUNG. Night Thoughts.


HE that rests upon established consent, as the judgment approved by time, trusts to a very fallacious and weak foundation for we have but an imperfect knowledge of the discoveries in arts and sciences made public in different ages and countries. * Nor is consent, or the continuance thereof, a thing of any great account: for however governments may vary, there is but one state of the sciences: and that will for ever be democratic or popular. But the doctrines of greatest vogue among the people, are either the contentious and quarrelsome, or the showy and empty; that is, such as may either entrap the assent or lull the mind to rest: whence of course the greatest

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geniuses in all ages have suffered violence, whilst, out of regard to their own character, they submitted to the judgment of the times and the populace. And thus, when any more sublime speculations happened to appear, they were commonly tossed and extinguished by the breath of popular opinion. Whence time, like a river, has brought down to us what is light and tumid, but sunk what was ponderous and solid.

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And the night shall be fill'd with music,
And the cares that infest the day
Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs,

And as silently steal away.

CARE, mad to see a man sae happy,


E'en drown'd himsel' amang the nappy ;*

Cares have commonly very little jurisdiction over the time that is spent

in eating and drinking.

Don Quixote,


As bees flee hame wi' lades o' treasure,
The minutes wing'd their way wi' pleasure;
Kings may be blest, but Tam was glorious,
O'er a' the ills o' life victorious!

BURNS. Tam O'Shanter.


HE that hath seen a great oak dry and dead,
Yet clad with reliques of some trophies old,
Lifting to heaven her aged hoary head;
Whose foot on ground hath left but feeble hold,
But half-disbowel'd lies above the ground,
Showing her wreathed roots, and naked arms,
And on her trunk all rotten and unsound
Only supports herself for meat for worms;
And though she owe her fall to the first wind,
Yet of the devout people is adored,
And many young plants spring out of her rind;
Who such an oak hath seen, let him record
That such this city's honour was of yore,
And 'mongst all cities flourishèd much more.

All that which Egypt whilom did devise,
All that which Greece their temples to embrave,
After the Ionic, Doric, Attic guise,

Or Corinth skill'd in curious works to grave;
All that Lysippus' practic art could form,
Apelles' wit, or Phidias his skill,

Was wont this ancient city to adorn,

And heaven itself with her wide wonders fill;
All that which Athens ever brought forth wise,
All that which Afric ever brought forth strange,
All that which Asia ever had of prise,
Was here to see: a marvellous great change:
Rome living was the world's sole ornament,
And dead is now the world's sole monument.

SPENSER. The Ruines of Rome.


ARCHES on arches! as it were that Rome,
Collecting the chief trophies of her line,
Would build up all her triumphs in one dome,
Her Coliseum stands; the moonbeams shine

As 't were its natural torches, for divine

Should be the light which streams here to illume
This long-explored, but still exhaustless, mine
Of contemplation; and the azure gloom

Of an Italian night, where the deep skies assume

Hues which have words, and speak to ye of heaven,
Floats o'er this vast and wond'rous monument,
And shadows forth its glory. There is given
Unto the things of earth, which Time hath bent,
A spirit's feeling, and where he hath leant
His hand, but broke his scythe, there is a power
And magic in the ruin'd battlement,

For which the palace of the present hour

Must yield its pomp, and wait till ages are its dower.


But when the rising moon begins to climb
Its topmost arch, and gently pauses there;
When the stars twinkle through the loops of time,
And the low night-breeze waves along the air
The garland-forest, which the gray walls wear,
Like laurels on the bald first Cæsar's head;
When the light shines serene but does not glare,
Then in the magic circle raise the dead:

Heroes have trod this spot-'tis on their dust ye tread. Childe Harold, Canto IV.


WESTWARD, much nearer by south-west, behold!

Where on the Ægean shore a city stands,

Built nobly, pure the air, and light the soil;
Athens, the eye of Greece, mother of arts
And eloquence, native to famous wits,
Or hospitable, in her sweet recess,

City or suburban, studious walks and shades.
See there the olive grove of Academe,

Plato's retirement, where the Attic bird

Trills her thick-warbled notes the summer long;
There flowery hill Hymettus, with the sound

Of bees' industrious murmur oft invites

To studious musing; there Ilissus rolls

His whispering stream: within the walls then view The school of ancient sages; his who bred

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