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Fair all the pageant—but how passing fair
The slender form which lay on couch of Ind; O’er her white bosom strayed her hazel hair, Pale her dear cheek, as if for love she pined.
PIQUE ADD long prescription of established laws, And pique of honour to maintain a cause.—Dryden.
Why pique all mortals that affect a name?
All furious as a favoured child
THEN at my lodging
Shakspere. Let's live with that small pittonce that we have; Who covets more, is evermore a slave. Herrick.
Half his earned pittance to his neighbours went,
PITY. And but to speaken of her conscience, She was so charitable and so piteous, She would weep an that she but saw a mouse Caught in a trap, if it were dead or bled.—Chaucer.
1.-Yet shew some pity!
2.—I shew it most of all, when I shew justice; For then I pity those I do not know, Which a dismissed offence would after gall; And do him right, that, answering one foul wrong, Lives not to act another.
Rosiland's beauty did appear.
I have heard her with sweetness unfold
How that pity was due to a dove;
And she called it the sister of love.
So much I her accents adore,
The wounds that pain and grief have made,
Are seldom cured by laughter;
As deep the moment after?
Is friendship's best endeavour;
Makes all look fresh as ever. J. Burbidge.
To hold a place
Prior. All those plagues which earth and air had brooded First in inferior creatures tried their force, And last they seized on man. Lee and Dryden.
You talk to me in parables: You may have known that I'm no wordy man; Fine speeches are the instruments of knaves, Or fools that use them, when they want good sense; But honesty Needs no disguise nor ornament: be plain. A crown of ruddy gold enclosed her brow, Plain without pomp, and rich without a shoir.
Dryden. As shades most sweetly recommend the light, So modest plainness sets off sprightly wit.
PLAY. Look to the players! see them well bestowed; They are the abstract and brief chronicles of the times.
Shakspere. All the world 's a stage, And all the men and women merely players; They have their exits and their entrances, and one man in his time plays many parts, His acts being seven ages.
Shakspere. Play not for gain, but sport; who plays for more Than he can lose with pleasure, stakes his heart; Perhaps his wife's too, and whom she hath borne.
Herbert. That as in birth in beauty you excel, The muse might dictate, and the poet tell: Your art no other art can speak, and you, To shew how well you play, must play anew.
His pencil was striking, resistless, and grand;
Describe him who can,
The New Timon.
Mason. There is no sterner moralist than pleasure. Byron.