MCXXVIII.

There is so great a fever in goodness, that the dissolution of it must cure it: novelty is only in request; and it is as dangerous to be aged in any kind of course, as it is virtuous to be constant in any undertaking. There is scarce truth enough alive to make societies secure; but security enough to make fellowships accursed: much upon this riddle runs the wisdom of the world. This news is old enough, yet it is every day's news.Shakspeare.

MCXXIX.

Criticism is now become a mere hangman's work, and meddles only with the faults of authors; nay, the critic is disgusted less with their absurdity than excellence: and you cannot displease him more than in leaving him little room for his malice in your correctness and perfection; though that indeed is what he never allows any man; for, like the bed of Procrustes, they stretch or cut off an author to its length. These spoilers of Parnassus are a just excuse for concealing their name, since more of their malice is levelled at the person than the thing; and as a sure mark of their judgment, they will extol to the skies the incongruous work of a person they will not allow to write common sense.-Dryden.

MCXXX.

It is in the general behalf of society that I speak, at least the more judicious part of it, which seems much distasted with the immodest and obscene writing of many in their plays. Besides, they could wish your poets would leave to be promoters of other men's jests, and to way-lay all the stale apophthegms, or the books they can hear of in print, or otherwise, to farce their scenes withal. That they would not so penuriously glean wit from every laundress or hackneyman, or derive their best grace, with servile imitation, from common stages, or observation of the company they converse with; as if their invention lived wholly on another man's trencher. Again, that feeding their friends with nothing of their own, but what they have twice or thrice

cooked, they should not wantonly give it out how soon they had dressed it; nor how many coach-horses came to carry away the broken meat, besides hobby-horses and foot-cloth wags.-Ben Jonson.

MCXXXI.

Great is the power of eloquence; but never is it so great as when it pleads along with nature, and the culprit is a child strayed from his duty, and returned to it again with tears.Sterne.

MCXXXII.

Thy father tells me thou art too poetical, boy: thou must not be so; thou must leave poets, young novice, thou must; they are a sort of poor starved rascals, that are ever wrapped up in foul linen, and can boast of nothing but a lean visage peering out of a seam-rent suit, the very emblems of beggary.-The Poetaster-Ben

Jonson.

MCXXXIII.

-Let me lead you from this place of sorrow, To one where young Delights attend; and Joys, Yet new, unborn, and blooming in the bud, Which wait to be full-blown at your approach, And spread like roses, to the morning sun; Where ev'ry hour shall roll in circling joys, And Love shall wing the tedious-wasting day. Life without Love is load; and Time stands still; What we refuse to him, to death we give; And then, then only, when we love, we live. Mourning Bride-Congreve.

MCXXXIV.

Though men may impose upon themselves what they please, by their corrupt imaginations, truth will ever keep its station; and as glory is nothing else but the shadow of virtue, it will certainly disappear at the departure of virtue.-Steele.

MCXXXV.

If we are told a man is religious, we still ask, what are his morals? But if we hear at first that he has ho

nest morals, and is a man of natural justice and good temper, we seldom think of the other question, whether he be religious and devout?-Shaftesbury.

MCXXXVI.

Wise legislators never yet could draw
A fox within the reach of common law:
For posture, dress, grimace, and affectation,
Though foes to sense, are harmless to the nation.
Our last redress is dint of verse to try,

And satire is our Court of Chancery.

MCXXXVII.

Dryden.

The current of tenderness widens as it proceeds; and two men imperceptibly find their hearts filled with goodnature for each other, when they were at first only in pursuit of mirth or relaxation.-Goldsmith.

MCXXXVIII.

Didst thou but know the inly touch of love,
Thou wouldst as soon go kindle fire with snow,
As seek to quench the fire of love with words.
The more thou dam'st it up, the more it burns;
The current, that with gentle murmur glides,
Thou know'st, being stopped, impatiently doth rage;
But when his fair course is not hindered,

He makes sweet music with the enamel'd stones,
Giving a gentle kiss to every sedge

He overtaketh in his pilgrimage;

And so by many winding nooks he strays,

With willing sport, to the wild ocean.

MCXXXIX.

Shakspeare.

The manner in which most writers begin their treatises on the use of language is generally thus: "Language has been granted to man, in order to discover his wants and necessities, so as to have them relieved by society. Whatever we desire, whatever we wish, it is but to clothe those desires or wishes in words, in order to fruition; the principal use of language, therefore," say they, "is

to express our wants, so as to receive a speedy redress." Such an account as this may serve to satisfy grammarians and rhetoricians well enough, but men who know the world maintain very contrary maxims; they hold, and I think with some show of reason, that he who best knows how to conceal his necessities and desires, is the most likely person to find redress, and that the true use of speech is not so much to express our wants as to conceal them.-Goldsmith.

MCXL.

-A diamond,

Though set in horn, is still a diamond,
And sparkles as in purest gold.

MCXLI.

Massinger.

Had mankind nothing to expect beyond the grave, their best faculties would be a torment to them; and the more considerate and virtuous they were, the greater concern and grief they would feel from the shortness of their prospects.-Balguy.

MCXLII.

-Antis

As rust corrupts iron, so envy corrupts man.

thenes.

MCXLIII.

Orpheus could leave the savage race;
And trees uprooted left their place,
Sequacious of the lyre:

But bright Cecilia raised the wonder higher:
When to her organ vocal breath was given,
An angel heard, and straight appeared,
Mistaking earth for heaven.

MCXLIV.

Dryden.

Demetrius. Horace is a mere spunge; nothing but humours and observation: he goes up and down sucking from every society, and when he comes home squeezes himself dry again.

Tucca. Thou say'st true, my poor poetical fury, he will pen all he knows. A sharp thorny-tooth'd satirical

rascal, fly him; he carries hay in his horn; he will soon er lose his best friend than his least jest. What he once drops upon paper against a man, lives eternally to upbraid him in the mouth of every slave, tankard-bearer, or waterman; not a boy that comes from the bakehouse but shall point at him: 'tis all dog and scorpion; he carries poison in his teeth, and a sting in his tail. Fough! body of Jove! I'll have the slave whipt, one of these days, for his satires and his humours, by one cashier'd clerk or other.

Crispinus. We'll undertake him, Captain.

Dem. Aye, and tickle him i' faith; for his arrogancy and his impudence, in commending his own things; and for his translating, I can trace him, ' faith. O, he is the most open fellow living; I had as lieve as a new suit I were at it.

Tuc. Say no more, then, but do it; 'tis the only way to get thee a new suit: sting him, my little neufts; I'll give you instructions; I'll be your intelligencer: we'll all join and hang upon him like so many horse-leeches, the players and all. We shall sup together soon, and then we'll conspire, i' faith.

The Poetaster-Ben Jonson.

MCXLV.

An intrepid courage is at best but a holiday-kind of virtue, to be seldom exercised, and never but in cases of necessity: affability, mildness, tenderness, and a word which I would fain bring back to its original signification of virtue, I mean good-nature, are of daily use; they are the bread of mankind, and staff of life.-Dryden.

MCXLVI.

Alas! what pains, what racking thoughts he proves,
Who lives remov'd from her he dearest loves!
In cruel absence doom'd past joys to mourn,
And think on hours that will no more return!
Oh! let me ne'er the pangs of absence try,
Save me from absence, Love, or let me die.

Congreve.