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It is a beautiful, a blessed belief,
How sweet it were, if without feeble fright,
Sir W. Davenant.
Anger is like
Give him no breath, but now Make boot of his distraction: never anger Made good guard for itself.
Anger's my meat; I sup upon myself,
Be_calm in arguing; for fierceness makes
Error a fault, and truth discourtesy: Why should I feel another man's mistakes,
More than his sickness or his poverty?
Anger in hasty words or blows,
Madness and anger differ but in this,
Savage. Next Anger rushed, his eyes on fire,
In lightnings owned his secret stings,
Collins. Go to the bee! and thence bring home, (Worth all the treasures of her comb,)
An antidote against rash strife:
The ocean lashed to fury loud,
J. W. Eastburn.
In genial spring, beneath the quiv'ring shade,
He, like a patient angler, ere he struck,
I in these flowery meads would be;
And angling too, that solitary vice,
NOBLER birth Of creatures animate with gradual life, Of growth, sense, reason, all summed up in man.
Milton. Let cavillers deny That brutes have reason; sure 't is something more, 'Tis Heaven directs, and stratagem inspires, Beyond the short extent of human thought.
Somerville. The heart is hard in nature, and unfit For human fellowship, as being void Of sympathy, and therefore dead alike To love and friendship both, that is not pleased With sight of animals enjoying life, Nor feels their happiness augment his own. -Cowper. Though man, as God's own miniature, reveals The grace of beauty and the glow of soul, And Deity be chartered on his brow, The brutes and plumy pilgrims of the air, The insect tribe, and all the scaly troop That wing their rapid way, proclaim a God! Behold the lion bounding from his den With red and rolling eye! or hear the bear While grimly glancing o'er the ice-clad waste, Loading the wind with his tremendous howl! Or see leviathan uproot the deep, And lash the ocean into storms! or mark The kingly eagle pierce the cope of heaven, And shiver the contending clouds! Great God! These give to mortal eyes a glimpse of Thee!
The things we fear bring less annoy
What then remains last after past annoy,
Sadness cannot be;
Never came near thee.—Shelley, to the Lark.
WITHIN the hollow crown, That rounds the mortal temples of a king, Death keeps his court; and there the antic sits, Scoffing his state.
What! dares the slave Come hither covered with an antic face, To fleer and scorn at our solemnity?
Scrambling, out facing, fashion-mongering boys, That lie, and cog, and flout, deprave and slander, Go anticly, and shew an outward hideousness, And speak of half-a-dozen dangerous words.
Shakspere. A work of rich entail, and curious mould, Woven with antics, and wild imagery. Spenser.
Of all our antic sights and pageantry,
For even at first reflection she espies