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Waller. The woodcock's early visit and abode, For long continuance in our temp’rate clime, Fortell a liberal harvest.
Where, tell me where
Is the abode of care?
None from her can run,
There's no breast, not one,
Where, tell me where
Bides no earthly care?
Are you on the road
To that blest abode
That true agapemoné,
Middleton. The rapine is so abject and profane, They not from trifles, nor from gods refrain.
Dryden, from Juvenal. To what base ends, and by what abject ways Are mortals urged through sacred lust of praise.
Pope. How past expression, abject is the man Who at the feet of power bows down, to kiss The golden toe that's offered for his homage; Who lies, and flatters, and forswears himself, For such rewards as tyrants can bestow: Though clothed in purple, faring sumptuously, No beggar clad in rags, with but a crust, Is half so abject, and so mean as he. Egone.
ABSENCE. LIKE as the culver on the bared bough, Sits mourning for the absence of her mate, And in her songs sends many a wishful vow For his return that seems to linger late; So I, alone now left, disconsolate, Mourn to myself the absence of my love; And wandering here and there all desolate, Seek, with my plaints, to match that mournful dove.
Spenser. How like a winter hath my absence been
From thee, the pleasure of the fleeting year! What freezings have I felt, what dark days seen, What cold December barrenness everywhere.
Shakspere. From you have I been absent in the spring,
When proud-pied April, dress'd in all his trim, Hath put a spirit of youth in every thing;
That heavy Saturn laugh'd and leap'd with him. Yet nor the lays of birds, nor the sweet smell
Of different flowers in odour and in hue, Could make me any summer's story tell, Or from their proud lap pluck them where they grew. Nor did I wonder at the lilies white,
Nor praise the deep vermillion in the rose:
Drawn after you; you pattern of all those,
Though absent, present in desires they be;
Drayton. your sight my life is less secure; Those wounds you gave, your eyes can only cure;
No balm in absence will effectual prove,
Sir Robert Howard.
To see each other in reflection. Suckling.
Dryden. His friends beheld and pitied him in vain, For what advice can ease a lover's pain? Absence, the best expedient they could find, Might save the fortune, if not spare the mind.
Dryden. Though I am forced thus to absent myself From all I love, I shall contrive some means, Some friendly intervals to visit thee. Southern. Condemn'd whole years in absence to deplore, And image charms he must behold no more.—Pope. In spring the fields, in autumn hills I rove; At morn the plains, at noon the shady grove; But Delia, always absent from her sight, Nor plains at morn, nor groves at noon delight.
Pope. Methinks I see thee straying on the beach, And asking of the surge that bathes thy foot If ever it has washed our distant shore.
Cowper. What tender strains of passion can impart The pangs of absence to an amorous heart? Far, far too faint the powers of language prove, Language, that slow interpreter of love! Souls paired like ours, like ours to union wrought, Converse by silent sympathy of thought.-Pattison.
Procter. Short absence hurt him more, And made his wound far greater than before; Absence not long enough to root out quite All love, increases love at second sight.—Thomas May. The limner's art may trace the absent feature, And give the eye of distant weeping faith To view the form of its idolatry; But oh! the scenes 'mid which they met and parted, The thoughts—the recollections sweet and bitter, Tn' Elysian dreams of lovers, when they loved, Who shall restore them?
Maturin. Absence makes the heart grow fonder. Moore. Think’st thou that I could bear to part From thee, and learn to halve my heart; Years have not seen, time shall not see, The hour that tears my soul from thee. Byron.
We must part awhile; A few short months--tho' short, they will be long Without thy dear society: but yet We must endure it, and our love will be The fonder after parting—it will grow Intenser in our absence, and again Burn with a tender glow when I return.
James. G. Percival.
Is filled with doubts and fears!
Thy months, long-lingering years. J. T. Watson.