I have not joyed an hour since you departed, for public miseries, and for private fears; but this blest meeting has o’erpaid them all.
Our souls sit close and silently within,
And their own web from their own entrails spin;
And when eyes meet far off, our sense is such,
That, spider-like, we feel the tenderest touch.
For every inch that is not fool is rogue.
And kind as kings upon their coronation day.
Men met each other with erected look,
The steps were higher that they took;
Friends to congratulate their friends made haste,
And long inveterate foes saluted as they pass’d.
Errors, like straws, upon the surface flow;
He who would search for pearls must dive below.
None but the brave deserves the fair.
For those whom God to ruin has design’d,
He fits for fate, and first destroys their mind.
And torture one poor word ten thousand ways.
Men are but children of a larger growth.
Bacchus, ever fair and ever young.
Thus all below is strength, and all above is grace.
Death in itself is nothing; but we fear
To be we know not what, we know not where.
Rich the treasure,
Sweet the pleasure,–
Sweet is pleasure after pain.
Be kind to my remains; and oh defend,
Against your judgment, your departed friend!
Whate’er he did was done with so much ease,
In him alone ‘t was natural to please.
For pity melts the mind to love.
Better to hunt in fields for health unbought
Than fee the doctor for a nauseous draught.
The wise for cure on exercise depend;
God never made his work for man to mend.
A fiery soul, which, working out its way,
Fretted the pygmy-body to decay,
And o’er-inform’d the tenement of clay.
A daring pilot in extremity;
Pleas’d with the danger, when the waves went high
He sought the storms.
Could swell the soul to rage, or kindle soft desire.
Wit will shine
Through the harsh cadence of a rugged line.
Great wits are sure to madness near allied,
And thin partitions do their bounds divide.
Old as I am, for ladies’ love unfit,
The power of beauty I remember yet.
So softly death succeeded life in her,
She did but dream of heaven, and she was there.
And all to leave what with his toil he won
To that unfeather’d two-legged thing, a son.