EXPERIENCE. Regan. O, SIR, to wilful men, The injuries that they themselves procure, SHAKSPEARE. King Lear. THE HAPPY LIFE. How happy is he born and taught Whose passions not his masters are, Who envies none that chance doth raise, Who hath his life from rumours freed, Who God doth late and early pray, * 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. Life, that dares send A challenge to his end, I. WALTON. Lives. And when it comes, say, "Welcome, friend!" CRASHAW. This man is freed from servile bands SIR H. WOTTON. LOST FRIENDS. SINCE it hath pleased that first and supreme Fair No outward show, no, nor no inward grace, Shall power have my thoughts henceforth to hold: Love here on earth huge storms of care doth toss, AND when I feel, fair creature of an hour, DRUMMOND. KEATS. SURPRISED by joy-impatient as the wind- To my most grievous loss? That thought's return WORDSWORTH. BREAK, break, break, On thy cold gray stones, O Sea! And I would that my tongue could utter 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! And the stately ships go on To their haven under the hill; But O for the touch of a vanish'd hand, Break, break, break, At the foot of thy crags, O Sea! But the tender grace of a day that is dead, THE old house by the lindens I saw the nursery windows The large Newfoundland house-dog They walked not under the lindens, But shadow, and silence, and sadness, The birds sang in the branches, With sweet familiar tone; But the voices of the children Will be heard in dreams alone! TENNYSON. And the boy that walked beside me, He could not understand I pressed his warm soft hand. LONGFELLOW. THE merry merry lark was up and singing, Now the hare is snared and dead beside the snowyard, CHARLES KINGSLEY. |