Wormwood. His [cup] had been quaffed too quickly, and

he found

The dregs were wormwood.

Worship.

BYRON, Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, Canto iii, st. 9

He wales [chooses] a portion with judicious care; And "Let us worship God!" he says, with solemn air. BURNS, The Cotter's Saturday Night, st. 12

What sought they thus afar?

Bright jewels of the mine?

The wealth of seas, the spoils of war?

They sought a faith's pure shrine!

Ay, call it holy ground,

The soil where first they trod;

They have left unstained what there they found,—
Freedom to worship God.'

FELICIA HEMANS, Landing of the Pilgrim

Fathers, st. 9, 10

One wishes worship freely given to God,
Another wants to make it statute-labour.

HOOD, Ode to Rae Wilson, Esquire, st. 11

Worst. When things are at the worst, they sometimes

mend.'

BYRON, Don Juan, Canto vi, st. 1

When the worst comes to the worst, no man is without a friend who is possessed of shaving-materials.

DICKENS, David Copperfield, I, xvii

In the worst inn's worst room.

POPE, Moral Essays, Epistle iii, line 299

We are not the first

Who, with best meaning, have incurred the worst.

When remedies are past, the griefs are ended

SHAKESPEARE, King Lear, v, 3

SHAKESPEARE, Othello, i, 3

By seeing the worst, which late on hopes depended.

1 And now the aisles of the ancient church
By equal feet are trod,

And the bell that swings in its belfry rings
Freedom to worship God!

WHITTIER, In the Old South, st. 9

2 Would Heaven this mourning year were past!
One may have better luck at last;
Matters at worst are sure to mend,
The Devil's wife was but a fiend.

PRIOR, Turtle and Sparrows, lines 414-417

Things at the worst will cease, or else climb upward
To what they were before.

SHAKESPEARE, Macbeth, iv, a

Worth.- Worth makes the man, and want of it, the fellow; The rest is all but leather or prunello.

Wrath.

POPE, Essay on Man, Epistle iv, lines 203, 204

Our hame,

Whare sits our sulky, sullen dame,

Gathering her brows like gathering storm,
Nursing her wrath to keep it warm.

BURNS, Tam O'Shanter, st. 1

Come not within the measure of my wrath.
SHAKESPEARE, Two Gentlemen of Verona, v, 4

Wreck.

All at once a sea broke over them,
And they that saw it from the shore have said
It struck the wreck and piecemeal scattered it,
Just as a woman might the lump of salt
That 'twixt her hands into the kneading-pan
She breaks and crumbles on her rising bread.

JEAN INGELOw, Brothers and a Sermon

Wrecked. As men wrecked upon a sand, that look to be washed off the next tide.

SHAKESPEARE, King Henry V, iv, 1

Wrestled. Sir, you have wrestled well and overthrown
More than your enemies.

SHAKESPEARE, As You Like It, i, 2

DRYDEN, All for Love, iii, 1

Wretched. The wretched have no friends

Lest, when our latest hope is fled, ye taste of our despair,
And learn by proof, in some wild hour, how much the
wretched dare.
MACAULAY, Virginia, st. 6

Wrinkles. Wrinkles (the d- d democrats) won't flatter
BYRON, Don Juan, Canto x, st. 24

Writ.— The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ,
Moves on: nor all your piety nor wit

Shall lure it back to cancel half a line,
Nor all your tears wash out a word of it.1

OMAR KHAYYÁM, Rubáiyát (trans. Fitzgerald), st. 71

1 What is writ, is writ,

Would it were worthier!

BYRON, Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, Canto iv, st. 185

Whatever hath been written shall remain,
Nor be erased nor written o'er again;
The unwritten only still belongs to thee:

Take heed, and ponder well what that shall be.

LONGFELLOW, Morituri Salutamus, st. 18

Write. He cannot write who knows not to give o'er.

DRYDEN, Art of Poetry, line 63

Learn to write well, or not to write at all.

DRYDEN, Essay upon Satire, line 281

It may be glorious to write

Thoughts that shall glad the two or three

High souls, like those far stars that come in sight
Önce in a century;

But better far it is to speak

One simple word, which now and then
Shall waken their free nature in the weak
And friendless sons of men;

To write some earnest verse or line,
Which, seeking not the praise of art,

Shall make a clearer faith and manhood shine
In the untutored heart.

LOWELL, Incident in a Railroad Car, st. 19-21

Why did I write? what sin to me unknown
Dipped me in ink, my parents', or my own?
As yet a child, nor yet a fool to fame,

I lisped in numbers, for the numbers came.
I left no calling for this idle trade,

No duty broke, no father disobeyed.

POPE, Epistle to Dr. Arbuthnot, lines 125-130

But those who cannot write, and those who can,
All rhyme, and scrawl, and scribble, to a man
POPE, Imitations of Horace, II, Epistle i,
lines 187, 188

Thither write, my queen,
And with mine eyes I'll drink the words you send,
Though ink be made of gall.

SHAKESPEARE, Cymbeline, i, 1 [2]

I once did hold it, as our statists do,

A baseness to write fair, and laboured much

How to forget that learning; but, sir, now

It did me yeoman's service.-SHAKESPEARE, Hamlet, v, 2

Devise, wit! write, pen! for I am for whole volumes in folio. SHAKESPEARE, Love's Labour's Lost, i, 2

To be a well-favoured man is the gift of fortune; but to write and read comes by nature.

SHAKESPEARE, Much Ado about Nothing, iii, 3

Writing. This comes of drinking asses' milk and writing.

DRYDEN, Absalom and Achitophel, II, line 395

True ease in writing comes from art, not chance,
As those move easiest who have learned to dance.

POPE, Essay on Criticism, lines 362, 363;
Imitations of Horace, II, Epistle ii, lines 178, 179

Of all those arts in which the wise excel,
Nature's chief masterpiece is writing well.

SHEFFIELD, DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM, Essay on
Poetry, lines 1, 2

Wrong. One wrong more to man, one more insult to God!
R. BROWNING, The Lost Leader, line 24

Time at last sets all things even

And if we do but watch the hour,
There never yet was human power
Which could evade, if unforgiven,
The patient search and vigil long
Of him who treasures up a wrong.

BYRON, Mazeppa, st. 10
Wrongs. On adamant our wrongs we all engrave,
But write our benefits upon the wave.

KING, Art of Love, lines 971, 972

How will you ever straighten up this shape;
Touch it again with immortality;

Give back the upward looking and the light;
Rebuild in it the music and the dream;

Make right the immemorial infamies,
Perfidious wrongs, immedicable woes?

EDWIN MARKHAM, The Man With the Hoe, st. 5

Xerxes.- Xerxes must die,

And so must I.

New England Primer

Yankee. The Yankee boy, before he's sent to school,
Well knows the mysteries of that magic tool,
The pocket knife.

And in the education of the lad

No little part that implement hath had.
His pocket knife to the young whittler brings
A growing knowledge of material things.

Thus by his genius and his jack-knife driven,
Erelong he'll solve you any problem given;

Ay, when he undertakes it,

He'll make the thing and the machine that makes it.

For, there's go in it, you may know

That there's go in it, and he'll make it go

JOHN PIERPONT, Whittling

Yawp. I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the WALT WHITMAN, Song of Myself, 52

world.

By your truth she shall be true,
Ever true, as wives of yore;
And her "yes," once said to you,
Shall be "yes" for evermore.

E. B. BROWNING, The Lady's Yes, st. 1, 7

Yesterday. Oh, call back yesterday, bid time return!

SHAKESPEARE, King Richard II, iii, 2

Yesterdays. Oh, for yesterdays to come!

YOUNG, Night Thoughts, II, line 312

Yester-year.- Where are the snows of yester-year?

DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI, The Ballad of Dead Ladies

Yew.- Old Yew, which graspest at the stones
That name the underlying dead,

Thy fibres net the dreamless head,'
Thy roots are wrapped about the bones.

TENNYSON, In Memoriam, ii, st. 1

a

Yorick. Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him, Horatio: fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy: he hath borne me on his back a thousand times; and now, how abhorred in my imagination it is! my gorge rises at it. Here hung those lips that I have kissed I know not how oft. Where be your gibes now? your gambols? your songs? your flashes of merriment, that were wont to set the table on a roar? Not one now, to mock your grinning? quite chap-fallen? Now get you to my lady's chamber, and tell her, let her paint an inch thick, to this favour she must come.-SHAKESPEARE, Hamlet, v, 1

Young. Young fellows will be young fellows.

ISAAC BICKERSTAFF, Love in a Village, ii, 2

1 Why, I pray,

Look "Yes" last night, and yet say "No" to-day?

BYRON, Don Juan, Canto xii, st. 34

2 The dreamless sleep that lulls the dead.

BYRON, Euthanasia, st. I