Imatges de pÓgina

Yes-the same sin that overthrew the angels,
And of all sins most easily besets

Mortals the nearest to the angelic nature:
The vile are only vain; the great are proud.

Byron's Doge of Venice, a. 2, s. 1.


They say this is the dwelling of distress,
The very mansion house of misery!

To me, alas! it seems but just the same,
With that more spacious jail-the busy world!

Beller's Injured Innocencè.

How shall I bid thee welcome to a place

Where joy yet never enter'd? To a place

Where horrors only reign! Groans are our music,

And sorrows our companions.

Martyn's Timoleon.

How many pine in want, and dungeon-glooms;
Shut from the common air, and common use
Of their own limbs ! Thomson's Seasons-Winter.


A promise may be broke ;

Nay, start not at it-Tis an hourly practice;
The trader breaks it, yet is counted honest.
The courtier keeps it not-yet keeps his honour;
Husband and wife in marriage promise much,
Yet follow sep'rate pleasure, and are-virtuous.
The churchmen promise too, but wisely they
To a long payment stretch the crafty bill,

And draw upon futurity. Havard's King Charles I.

When wicked men make promises of truth,
Havard's Scanderbeg.

'Tis weakness to believe 'em.


The ways of Heaven are dark and intricate,
Puzzl'd in mazes, and perplex'd with errors;
Our understanding traces them in vain,

Lost and bewilder'd in the fruitless search;
Nor sees with how much art the windings run,
Nor where the regular confusion ends.

Addison's Cato.

This is thy work, almighty Providence!

Whose power, beyond the stretch of human thought,
Revolves the orbs of empire; bids them sink

Deep in the dead'ning night of thy displeasure,
Or rise majestic o'er a wondering world.

Thomson's Coriolanus, a. 2, s. 5.

The gods take pleasure oft, when haughty mortals On their own pride erect a mighty fabric,

By slightest means, to lay their towering schemes Low in the dust, and teach them they are nothing.

Wondrous chance!

Or rather wondrous conduct of the gods!


By mortals, from their blindness, chance misnam'd.
Thomson's Agamemnon, a. 3, s. 1.

Yes, Thou art ever present, power supreme!
Not circumscrib'd by time, nor fixt to space,
Confin'd to altars, nor to temples bound.
In wealth, in want, in freedom, or in chains,
In dungeons or on thrones, the faithful find thee!
Hannah More's Belshazzar, pt. 1.



When the black'ning clouds in sprinkling showers
Distil, from the high summits down the rain
Runs trickling, with the fertile moisture cheer'd,
The orchats smile; joyous the farmers see
Their thriving plants, and bless the heavenly dew.
Philips's Cider, b. 1.

The clouds consign their treasures to the fields
And, softly shaking on the dimpled pool
Prelusive drops, let all their moisture flow,
In large effusion, o'er the freshened world.

Thomson's Seasons-Spring.


Meantime refracted from yon eastern cloud,
Bestriding earth, the grand ethereal bow
Shoots up immense; and, every hue unfolds,
In fair proportion running from the red,
To where the violet fades into the sky.

Soon as the morning trembles o'er the sky,
And, unperceiv'd, unfolds the spreading day;
Before the ripened field the reapers stand,
In fair array; each by the lass he loves,
To bear the rougher part, and mitigate
By nameless gentle offices her toil.

At once they stoop and swell the lusty sheaves;
While thro' their cheerful band the rural talk,
The rural scandal, and the rural jest,
Fly harmless, to deceive the tedious time,
And steal unfelt the sultry hours away.


Ibid. Autumn.


Let them call it mischief;

When it's past, and prosper'd, 'twill be virtue.

Jonson's Cataline.

Seldom is faction's ire in haughty minds
Extinguish'd but by death, it oft like flame
Suppress'd, breaks forth again, and blazes higher.
May's Henry II.

Great discontents there are, and many murmurs:
The doors are all shut up: the wealthier sort
With arms across, and hats upon their eyes,
Walk to and fro before their silent shops;

Whole droves of lenders crowd the banker's doors,
To call in money: those who have none, mark
Where money goes; for when they rise 'tis plunder.
Dryden's Spanish Friar.

That talking knave

Consumes his time in speeches to the rabble,
And sows sedition up and down the city;
Picking up discontented fools, belying
The senators and government; destroying
Faith among honest men, and praising knaves,
Otway's Caius Marius.

And since the rabble now is ours,

Keep the fools hot, preach dangers in their ears;
Spread false reports o' th' senate; working up
Their madness to a fury quick and desp'rate;
Till they run headlong into civil discords

And do our bus'ness with their own destruction. Ibid.

Avoid the politic, the factious fool,

The busy, buzzing, talking, harden'd knave;

The quaint smooth rogue, that sins 'gainst his reason, Calls saucy loud sedition, public zeal :

And mutiny, the dictates of his spirit. Otway's Orphan.

The resty knaves are over-run with ease,
As plenty ever is the nurse of faction:
If in good days, like these, the headstrong herd
Grow madly wanton and repine; it is

Because the reins of pow'r are held too slack,
And reverend authority of late

Has worn a face of mercy more than justice.
Rowe's Jane Shore, a. 3, s. 1.

The state is out of tune; distracting fears,
And jealous doubts jar in our public counsels;
Amidst the wealthy city, murmurs rise,
Loud railings, and reproach, on those that rule,
With open scorn of government; hence credit,
And public trust twixt man and man are broke.
The golden streams of commerce are withheld,
Which fed the wants of needy hinds, and artizans,
Who therefore curse the great, and threat rebellion.

Curse on the innovating hand attempts it!
Remember him, the villain, righteous Heaven
In thy great day of vengeance! Blast the traitor
And his pernicious counsels; who for wealth,
For pow'r, the pride of greatness, or revenge,
Would plunge his native land in civil wars.


When shall the deadly hate of faction cease,
When shall our long divided land have rest,
If every peevish, moody malcontent,
Shall set the senseless rabble in an uproar?
Fright them with dangers, and perplex their brains,
Each day with some fantastic giddy change?


Who strikes at sov'reign pow'r had need strike home; For storms that fail to blow the cedar down,

May tear the branches, but they fix the roots.

Jeffery's Edwin.

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