TRUST not the treason of those smiling looks, That from the foolish fish their baits do hide. Her looks were like beams of the morning sun, Upon the pearled grass to make their feast. Spenser. Looks kill love, and love by looks reviveth: He has, I know not what, Of greatness in his looks, and of high fate Shakspere, Dryden. "Tis not the lily brow I prize, Nor roseate cheeks, nor sunny eyes, A thousand-fold more dear to me The look that gentle love discloses,— That look which love alone can see.-Coleridge. Oh! there are looks and tones that dart Some treasure it through life had sought. Thy mild looks are all eloquent, T. Moore. Robert Morris. Oh, there are looks that kill like lightning flashes; And there are looks like sunbeams warm and cheery. Anon. THOU art a lord, and nothing but a lord. Shakspere. What is a lord? doth that plain, simple word Contain some magic spell? as soon as heard, Like an alarum bell on night's dull ear, Doth it strike louder and more strong appear Than other words? whether we will or no, Thro' reason's court, doth it unquestion'd go, Ev'n on the mention, and of course transmit Notions of something excellent, of wit Pleasing, tho' keen, of humour free, tho' chaste, Of sterling sense, and with sound judgment grac'd. Of virtue, far above temptation's reach, And honour, which no malice can impeach? Nature exclaim'd with wonder-lords are things, LOSS. Churchill. "I have lost a day," said Titus, "for this day H. W. LOT. LOTTERY. LOUD. 411 LOT. PLEAS'D with each other's lot, our own we hate. Once in the flight of ages past, There lived a man;-and who was he Unknown the region of his birth, The land in which he died unknown; That joy and grief, and hope and fear, Burton. J. Montgomery. LOTTERY. FORTUNE, that with malicious joy, Still various, and unconstant still, Dryden, from Horace. Old Play. LOUD. THE numbers soft and clear, Gently stole upon the ear; Now louder and yet louder rise, And fill with spreading sounds the skies.-Pope. The soldier that philosopher well blamed, Who long and loudly in the schools declaimed. Denham. THE god of Love-ah benedicite! How mighty and how great a lord is he! Chaucer, modernized by Wordsworth. Love's a mighty lord, And hath so humbled me, as, I confess, Nor to his service, no such joy on earth! -To love, It is to be all made of sighs and tears; Shakspere. All made of passion, and all made of wishes; All humbleness, patience, and impatience; True gentle Love is like the summer dew, Shakspere. Which falls around when all is still and hush; And falls unseen until the bright drops strew With odours, herb and flower, and bank and bush. O Love-when womanhood is in the flush, And man's a young and an unspotted thing, His first breathed word, and her half-conscious blush, Are fair as light in heaven, or flowers in spring. Allan Cunningham. Long-waiting love doth entrance find Into the slow-believing mind. Sydney Godolphin. Has thy uncertain bosom ever strove Hast thou now dreaded, and now blessed his sway, Prior. LOVE. Who love enjoys, and placed hath his mind All tastes, all pleasures, all delights, And tend to feed his flame. In peace, Love tunes the shepherd's reed, In hamlets, dances on the green. 413 Drummond. Love rules the court, the camp, the grove, Coleridge. Love is a plant of holier birth, Scott. Henry Neele. Love?-I will tell thee what it is to love! It is to build with human thoughts a shrine, Where hope sits brooding like a beauteous dove; Where time seems young, and life a thing divine. All tastes, all pleasures, all desires combine To consecrate this sanctuary of bliss; Above the stars in shroudless beauty shine; Around the streams their flowery margins kiss; And if there's heaven on earth, that heaven is surely Charles Swain. this. |