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As full of labour as a wise man's art;

For folly that he wisely shows, is fit;
But wise men, folly-fallen, quite taint their wit.

JESTING. How begot.
Why, that's the way to choke a gibing spirit,
Whose influence is begot of that loose grace,
Which shallow laughing hearers give to fools.
A jest’s prosperity lies in the ear
Of him that hears it, never in the tongue
Of him that makes it.

Shakspeare. Joys. Departed. Thought, busy thought! too busy for my peace, Through the dark postern of time long elaps’d Led softly, by the stillness of the night, Strays, wretched rover! o'er the pleasing past, In quest of wretchedness, perversely strays; And finds all desert now; and meets the ghosts Of my departed joys, a numerous train.I tremble at the blessing once so dear; And every pleasure pains me to the heart.

KNOWLEDGE. Best kind of.

Taught to live
The easiest way, nor with perplexing thoughts
To interrupt the sweet of life, from which
God hath bid dwell far off all anxious cares,
And not molest us, unless we ourselves
Seek them with wand'ring thoughts and notions vain.
But apt the mind or fancy is to rove
Uncheck'd, and of her roving is no end;
Till warn'd, or by experience taught, she learn
That not to know at large of things remote
From use, obscure, and otle, but to know
That which before us lies in daily life,

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Is the prime wisdom; what is more, is fume,
Or emptiness, or fond impertinence,
And renders us in things that most concern,
Unpractis'd, unprepar’d, and still to seek.

KNOWLEDGE. Contrasted with Wisdom.

Meditation here
May think down hours to moments. Here the heart
May give a useful lesson to the head,
And Learning wiser grow without his books.
Knowledge and wisdom, far from being one,
Have oftimes no connexion. Knowledge dwells
In heads replete with thoughts of other men;
Wisdom in minds attentive to their own.
Knowledge a rude unprofitable mass,
The mere materials with which Wisdom builds,
Till smooth'd, and squar'd, and fitted to its place,
Does but encumber whom it seems t'enrich.
Knowledge is proud that he has learn'd so much;
Wisdom is humble that he knows no more,
Books are not seldom talismans and spells,
By which the magic art of shrewder wits
Holds an unthinking multitude enthrall’d.
Some to the fascination of a name
Surrender judgment, hoodwink'd. Some the style
Infatuates, and through labyrinths and wilds
Of error leads them, by a tune entranc'd.
While sloth seduces more, too weak to bear
The insupportable fatigue of thought,
And swallowing therefore without pause or choice
The total grist unsifted, husks and all.

Ladies, like variegated tulips, show,
'Tis to their changes half their charms we owe;



Fine by defect, and delicately weak,
Their happy spots their nice admirer take.


LADY OF THE LAKE. Description of.
Never did Grecian chizzel trace
A nymph, a naiad, or a grace,
Of finer form, or lovelier face
What, though the sun, with ardent frown,
Had slightly ting'd her cheek with brown;
The sportive toil, which short, and light,
Had dy'd her glowing hue so bright,
Serv'd, too, in hastier swell, to show
Short glimpses of a breast of snow.
What, though no rule of courtly grace
To measur'd mood had train'd her pace;
A foot more light, a step more true,
Ne'er from the heath-flower dash'd the dew;
E'en the slight hare-bell raised its head,
Elastic from her airy tread.
What, though upon her speech there hung
The accents of the mountain tongue;
Those silver sounds, so soft, so clear,
The list ner held his breath to hear.
A chieftan's daughter seem'd the maid;
Her satin snood, her silken plaid,
Her golden brooch, such birth betray'd.
And seldom was a snood amid
Such wild luxuriant ringlets hid,
Whose glossy black to shame might bring
The plumage of the raven's wing ;
And seldom o'er a breast so fair
Mantled a plaid with modest care;
And never brooch the folds combin'd
Above a heart more good and kind,


Her kindness and her worth to spy,
You need but gaze on Ellen's eye;
Not Katrine, in her mirror blue,
Gives back the banks in shapes more irue,
Than every free-born glance confess'd
The guileless movements of her breast;
Whether joy danc'd in her dark eye.
Or wo or pity claim'd a sigh,
Or filial love was glowing there,
Or meek devotion pour'd a prayer,
Or tale of injury called forth
The indignant spirit of the north.
One only passion, unreveald,
With maiden pride the maid conceal'd,
Yet not less purely felt the flame;
O need I tell that passion's name.


LADY. Languid one.
The languid lady next appears in state,
Who was not born to carry her own weight;
She lolls, reels, staggers, till some foreign aid
To her own stature lifts the feeble maid.
Then, if ordain'd to so severe a doom,
She by just stages journey's round the room;
But, knowing her own weakness, she despairs
To scale the Alps—that is, ascend the stairs.
My fan, let others say who laugh at toil;
Fan! hood! glove! scarf! is her laconic style.
And that is spoke with such a dying fall,
That Betty rather sees than hears the call :-
Let the robust and the gigantic carve;
Life is not worth so much, she'd rather starve :
But chew she must, herself, ah cruel fate!
That Rosalinda can't by proxy eat.


Loud mirth, mad laughter! wretched comforters
Physicians ! more than half of thy disease,
Laughter, though never censur'd yet as sin,
Is half-immortal. Is it much indulg'd?
By vénting spleen, or dissipating thought,
It shows a scorner, or it makes a fool
And sins, as hurting others, or ourselves. Young.

LAVINIA. Character of.
The lovely young Lavinia once had friends :
And fortune smil'd, deceitful, on her birth.
For, in her helpless years depriv'd of all,
Of every stay, save innocence and Heaven,
She, with her widow'd mother, feeble, old,
And poor, liv'd in a cottage, far retir'd
Among the windings of a woody vale ;
By solitude and deep surrounding shades,
But more by bashful modesty, conceal'd.
Together thus they shunn'd the cruel scorn
Which virtue, sunk to poverty, would meet
From giddy passion and low-minded pride :
Almost on Nature's common bounty fed;
Like the gay birds that sung them to repose,
Content and careless of to-morrow's fare.
Her form was fresher than the morning rose,
When the dew wets its leaves; unstain’d and pure,
As is the lily, or the mountain-snow.
The modest virtues mingled in her eyes,
Still on the ground dejected, darting all
Their humid beams into the blooming flowers :
Or when the mournful tale her mother told,
Of what her faithless fortune promis'd once,
Thrill'd in her thought, they, like the dewy star

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