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In some, ambition is the chief concern;
J. T. Watson.
The soil to which it owed its birth;
But never reach the quiet earth.
Such is ambition's foiled endeavour;
At his touch, (Such sanctity hath heaven given his hand.) They presently amend.
When I a prisoner chained, scarce freely drew
I found my subjects amicable join
Shakspere. O ye powers that search The heart of man, and weigh his inmost thoughts! If I have done amiss, impute it not.
Your kindred is not much amiss, 't is true,
Fairfax, from Tasso.
Some born to shun the solemn strife;
To soothe the certain ills of life,
New founts of bliss disclose,
eagerness With which the giddy multitude pursue The round amusive.
ANAGRAM. Though all her parts be not in the usual place, She hath yet the anagrams of a good face: If we might put the letters but one way, In this lean dearth of words, what could we say?
Donne. Thy genius calls thee not to purchase fame In keen iambics, but mild anagram. Dryden. But with still more disordered march advance, Nor march it seemed, but wild fantastic dance, The uncouth anagram's distorted train Shifting in double mazes o'er the plain.-Scribleriad.
The anarch old,
Despotic sway, and old tyrannic rule,
ANATOMY. OH, that my tongue were in the thunder's mouth! Then with a passion I would shake the world, And rouse from sleep that fell anatomy, Which cannot hear a feeble lady's voice.
Shakspere. They brought one Pinch, a hungry, lean-faced villain, A mere anatomy, a mountebank, A threadbare juggler, and a fortune-teller, A needy, hollow-eyed, sharp-looking wretch, A living dead man.
Hence, when anatomists discourse,
ANCESTRY. Boast not these titles of your ancestors, Brave youths; they ’re their possessions, not your own: When your own virtues equall’d have their names, ’T will be but fair to lean upon their fames, For they are strong supporters; but, till then The greatest are but growing gentlemen.
Ben Jonson. I have no urns, no dusty monuments; No broken images of ancestors, Wanting an ear or nose; no forged tables Of long descents, to boast false honours from.
Ben Jonson. Obscure! why prithee what am I? I knew My father, grandsire, and great grandsire, too; If further I derive my pedigree, I can but guess beyond the fourth degree, The rest of my forgotten ancestors Were sons of earth.
It is, indeeed, a blessing, when the virtues
Young. “Your ancient house?” No more: I cannot see The wondrous merits of a pedigree:
-Nor of a proud display Of smoky ancestors in wax and clay. Gifford.
ANGELS-ANGELIC. How oft do they their silver bowers leave,
To come to succour us that succour want?
The flitting skies, like flying pursuivant,
And their bright squadrons round about us plant;
Spenser. Heaven bless thee! Thou hast the sweetest face I ever looked on; For, as I have a soul, she is an angel. Shakspere. Thus they in heaven, above the starry sphere, Their happy hours in joy and hymning spent.--Milton. Angels, contented with their fame in heaven, Seek not the praise of men.
Milton. My fancy formed thee of angelic kind, Some emanation of the all-beauteous mind. Pope. Are ye for ever to your skies departed?
Oh! will ye visit this dim world no more? Ye whose bright wings a solemn splendour darted Through Eden's fresh and flowery shades of yore?