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My hungry eyes, through greedy covetise,
With no contentment can themselves suffice,
But having, pine; and having not, complain.

This night shall see the gaudy wreath decline,
The roses wither, and the lilies pine, Tickell.

Fair all the pageant—but how passing fair

The slender form which lay on couch of Ind; O’er her white bosom strayed her hazel hair, Pale her dear cheek, as if for love she pined.


PIQUE ADD long prescription of established laws, And pique of honour to maintain a cause.Dryden.


Why pique all mortals that affect a name?
A fool to pleasure, yet a slave to fame.

All furious as a favoured child
Balked of its wish; or fiercer still,
A woman piqued, who has her will.



THEN at my lodging
The worst is this, that at so slender warning,
You're like to have a thin and slender pittance.

Shakspere. Let's live with that small pittonce that we have; Who covets more, is evermore a slave. Herrick.

Half his earned pittance to his neighbours went,
They had his alms, and he had his content.


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PITY. And but to speaken of her conscience, She was so charitable and so piteous, She would weep an that she but saw a mouse Caught in a trap, if it were dead or bled.—Chaucer.

1.-Yet shew some pity!

2.—I shew it most of all, when I shew justice; For then I pity those I do not know, Which a dismissed offence would after gall; And do him right, that, answering one foul wrong, Lives not to act another.


Rosiland's beauty did appear.
Bright as noon-day, all-piercing, sprightly dear;
But he who led her seemed so soft and young,
As if that pity handed love along. Nat. Lee.

I have heard her with sweetness unfold

How that pity was due to a dove;
That it ever attended the bold,

And she called it the sister of love.
But her words such a pleasure convey,

So much I her accents adore,
Let her speak, and, whatever she say,
Methinks I should love her the more.

Pity! it is a pity to recall to feeling
The wretch too happy to escape to death
By the compassionate trance, poor nature's last
Resource against the tyranny of pain. Byron.

The wounds that pain and grief have made,

Are seldom cured by laughter;
Who has not felt the dreadful blade

As deep the moment after?
But pity, from the lips we love,

Is friendship's best endeavour;
And like the rain-drop from above,

Makes all look fresh as ever. J. Burbidge.





O place and greatness! millions of false eyes
Are stuck upon thee; volumes of report
Run with these false and most contrarious quests
Upon thy doings: thousand 'scapes of wit
Make thee the father of their idle dream,
And rack thee in their fancies.


To hold a place
In council, which was once esteem'd an honour,
And a reward for virtue, hath quite lost
Lustre and reputation, and is made
A mercenary purchase.


I am not mad, too well I feel
The different plague of each calamity.

Sometimes my plague, sometimes my darling,
Kissing to-day, to-morrow snarling.

Prior. All those plagues which earth and air had brooded First in inferior creatures tried their force, And last they seized on man. Lee and Dryden.


You talk to me in parables: You may have known that I'm no wordy man; Fine speeches are the instruments of knaves, Or fools that use them, when they want good sense; But honesty Needs no disguise nor ornament: be plain. A crown of ruddy gold enclosed her brow, Plain without pomp, and rich without a shoir.

Dryden. As shades most sweetly recommend the light, So modest plainness sets off sprightly wit.



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PLAY. Look to the players! see them well bestowed; They are the abstract and brief chronicles of the times.

Shakspere. All the world 's a stage, And all the men and women merely players; They have their exits and their entrances, and one man in his time plays many parts, His acts being seven ages.

Shakspere. Play not for gain, but sport; who plays for more Than he can lose with pleasure, stakes his heart; Perhaps his wife's too, and whom she hath borne.

Herbert. That as in birth in beauty you excel, The muse might dictate, and the poet tell: Your art no other art can speak, and you, To shew how well you play, must play anew.

Behold the child by nature's kindly law,
Pleas'd with a rattle, tickled with a straw;
Some livelier plaything gives his youth delight-
A little louder but as empty quite:
Scarfs, garters, gold, amuse his riper age,
And beads and prayer-books are the toys of age.
Pleas'd with this bauble still as that before,
Till tired he sleeps, and life's poor play is o'er.
They say we live by vice: indeed 't is true;
As the physicians by diseases do,
Only to cure them. Boldly I dare say
There has been more by us in one-one play
Laugh'd into wit and virtue, than hath been
By twenty tedious lectures drawn from sin,
And foppish humours; hence the cause doth rise,
Men are not won by th' ears, so well as eyes.

Look round, the wrecks of play behold,
Estates dismember'd mortgag'd, sold!
Their owners now to jails confin’d,
Shew equal poverty of mind.






FORM'd by the converse happily to steer
From grave to gay, from lively to severe;
Correct with spirit, eloquent with ease,
Intent to reason, or polite to please.


His pencil was striking, resistless, and grand;
His manners were gentle, complying, and bland;
Still born to improve us in every part,
His pencil our faces-his manners our heart.

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Describe him who can,
An abridgement of all that was pleasant in man.

It was not mirth--for mirth she was too still;
It was not wit-wit leaves the heart more chill;
But that continuous sweetness, which with ease
Pleases all round it, from the wish to please.

The New Timon.

PLEASURES, or wrong or rightly understood,
Our greatest evil or our greatest good.

Pleasures are like poppies spread,
You seize the flower, its bloom is shed;
Or like the snow falls on the river,
A moment white-then melts for ever;
Or like the borealis

That flit ere you can point their place;
Or like the rainbow's lovely form,
Evanishing amid the storm.

The youth, who bathes in pleasure's limpid streams
At well-judg'd intervals, feels all his soul
Nerv’d with recruited strength; but if too oft
He swims in sportive mazes through the flood,
It chills his languid virtue.

Mason. There is no sterner moralist than pleasure. Byron.

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