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And to be wroth with one we love,
Doth work like madness in the brain.

Of all bad things by which mankind are curs'd,
Their own bad tempers surely are the worst.

CUMBERLAND's Menander And her brow clear’d, but not her troubled eye; The wind was down, but still the sea ran high.

Byron's Don Juan Patience !-Hence—that word was made For brutes of burden, not for birds of prey; Preach it to mortals of a dust like thine,I am not of thine order.

Byron's Manfred. All furious as a favour'd child Balk'd of its wish; or, fiercer still, A woman piqued, who has her will.

Byron's Mazeppa. For his was not that blind, capricious rage, A word can kindle and a word assuage ; But the deep working of a soul unmix'd With aught of pity, where its wrath had fix'd.

Byron's Lara. His brow was like the deep when tempest-tost.

Byron's Vision of Judgment. Foil'd, bleeding, breathless, furious to the last.

BYRON's Childe Harold. The ocean lash'd to fury loud, Its high waves mingling with the cloud, Is peaceful, sweet serenity To anger's dark and troubled sea.

J. W. EASTBURNE At this she bristled up with ireHer bosom heav'd-her eye glanc'd fire; The blush that late suffus'd her face, To deeper crimson now gave place ;



Those eyes, that late were tright with joy,
Glared now like lightning to destroy ;
And she with such resentment burn'd
As only woman feels when scorn'd.



But they do want the quick discerning power,

Which doth in man the erring sense correct ;
Therefore the bee did suck the painted flower,
And birds, of grapes the cunning shadow peck'd.

Davies' Immortality of the Soul.
The subtle dog scours, with sagacious nose,
Along the field, and snuffs each breeze that blows,
Against the wind he takes his prudent way,
While the strong gale directs him to the prey.
Now the warm scent assures the covey near;
He treads with caution, and he pants with fear :
Then close to ground in expectation lies,
Till in the snare the fluttering covey


Gay's Rural Sports.
A colt, whose eyeballs flamed with ire,
Elate with strength and youthful fire.

Gay's Fables,
The lion is, beyond dispute,
Allow'd the most majestic brute ;
His vawur and his generous mind
Prove him superior of his kind.

Gay's Fables.
Had fate a kinder lot assign'd,
And form’d me of the lap-dog kind,
I then, in higher life employ'd,
Tlad indolence and ease enjoy'd ;


And, like a gentleman caress'd,
Had been the lady's favourite guest.

Gay's Fables
The wily fox remain’d,
A subtle, pilfering foe, prowling around
In midnight shades, and wakeful to destroy.

SOMERVILE's Chase Of all the brutes by nature form’d, The artful beaver best can bear the want Of vital air ; yet, 'neath the whelming tide, He lives not long; but respiration needs At proper intervals.


Let cavillers deny
That brutes have reason; sure 't is something more,
"T is heaven directs, and stratagems inspire
Beyond the short extent of human thought.


The snappish cur Close at my heel with yelping treble flies.

Pope. The hare, timorous of heart, and hard beset By death in various forms, dark snares, and dogs, And more unpitying man.

THOMSON's Seasons. And, scorning all the taming arts of man, The keen hyena, fellest of the fell.

THOMsoN's Seasons The lively, shining leopard, speckled o'er With many a spot, the beauty of the waste.

Thomson's Seasons.

He stands at bay
And puts his last faint refuge in despair;
The big round tears run down his dappled face;
He groans in anguish.

Thomson's Seasons.

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The tiger darting fierce,
Impetuous on the prey

hath doom'd.

THOMSON's Seasons
The watch-dog's voice, thai bay'd the whispering wind.


Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound,
And curs of low degree.


'Tis sweet to hear the watch-dog's honest bark
Bay deep-mouth'd welcome, as we draw near home.

BYRON's Don Juan
They revel, rest, then fearless, hopeless, die.

The brindled antamount, that lies
High in the boughs to catch his prey.



They say he sits
All day in contemplation of a statue
With ne'er a nose; and dotes on the decays,
With greater love than the self-loved Narcissus
Did on his beauty.


What toil did honest Curio take,
What strict inquiries did he make,
To get one medal wanting yet,
And perfect all his Roman set !
"Tis found ! and oh! his happy lot !
"Tis bought, lock'd up, and lies forgot!



He shows, on holidays, a sacred pin,
That touch'd the ruff that touch'd Queen Bess's chin.

Young's Love of Fame.
Rare are the buttons of a Roman's breeches,
In antiquarian eyes surpassing riches :
Rare is each crack'd, black, rotten, earthen dish,
That held of ancient Rome the flesh and fish.

Dr. Wolcot's Peter Pinda..


Her snowy breast was bare to ready spoil
Of hungry eyes.

SPENSER's Fairy Queen.
Neat, trimly drest,
Fresh as a bridegroom, and his chin new-reaped,
Show'd like a stubble-land at harvest home.

SHAKSPEARE. Drew from the deep Charybdis of his coat What seem'd a handkerchief, and forthwith blew His vocal nose.

SHAKSPEARE Costly thy habit as thy purse can buy, But not express'd in fancy; rich, not gaudy; For the apparel oft proclaims the man.

SHAKSPEARE The fashion Poth wear out more apparel than the man.

SHAKSPEARE It is the mind that makes the body rich ; And as the sun breaks through the darkest clouds, So honour peereth in the meanest habit. What! is the jay more precious than the lark,

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