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Regan. O, SIR, to wilful men,
The injuries that they themselves procure,
SHAKSPEARE. King Lear.
THE HAPPY LIFE.
Whose passions not his masters are,
Who envies none that chance doth raise,
Who hath his life from rumours freed,
* Sir H. Wotton's advice to a friend designed for an ambassador.—That, to be in safety himself, and serviceable to his country, he should always, and upon all occasions, speak the truth. It seems a state paradox: for, says Sir H. Wotton, you shall never be believed ; and by this means your truth will secure yourself, if you shall ever be called to any account; and it will also put your adversaries (who will still hunt counter) to a loss in all their disquisitions and undertakings.
I. WALTON. Lives. + Life, that dares send
A challenge to his end,
This man is freed from servile bands
SIR H. WOTTOX.
SINCE it hath pleased that first and supreme Fair
pure of mortal spots which did it stain,
have my thoughts henceforth to hold: Love here on earth huge storms of care doth toss, But placed above exempted is from loss.
DRUMMOND. AND when I feel, fair creature of an hour, That I shall never look upon thee more, Never have relish in the fairy power Of unreflecting love-then on the shore Of the wide world I stand alone, and think, Till love and fame to nothingness do sink.
KEATS. SURPRISED by joy-impatient as the windI turn'd to share the transport-0 with whom But Thee-deep buried in the silent tomb, That spot which no vicissitude can find ? Love, faithful love, recall’d thee to my mindBut how could I forget thee? through what power, Even for the least division of an hour, Have I been so beguiled as to be blind To my most grievous loss? That thought's return Was the worst pang that sorrow ever bore Save one, one only, when I stood forlorn, Knowing my heart's best treasure was no more; That neither present time nor years unborn Could to my sight that heavenly face restore.
BREAK, break, break,
On thy cold gray stones, O Sea !
The thoughts that arise in me.
O well for the fisherman's boy,
That he shouts with his sister at play! O well for the sailor lad,
That he sings in his boat on the bay !
To their haven under the hill ;
And the sound of a voice that is still !
Break, break, break,
At the foot of thy crags, O Sea !
THE old house by the lindens
Stood silent in the shade, And on the gravell’d pathway
The light and shadow played.
I saw the
windows Wide open to the air ! But the faces of the children
They were no longer there.
The large Newfoundland house-dog
Was standing by the door ;
Who would return no more.
They played not in the hall;
Were hanging over all.
With sweet familiar tone;
Will be heard in dreams alone!
And the boy that walked beside me,
He could not understand
I pressed his warm soft hand.
THE merry merry
lark was up
When my child's laugh rang through me.
And the lark beside the dreary winter sea,