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AUDIT. He took my father grossly, full of bread, With all his crimes broad blown, and flush as May; And how his audit stands, who knows save heaven?
Shakspere. I can make my audit up, that all From me do back receive the flour of all, And leave me but the bran.
Yet went she not, as not with such discourse
What was that snaky-headed Gorgon shield
The austere and ponderous juices they sublime,
Let not austerity breed servile fear;
AUTHORS. How many great ones may remember'd be, Which in their days most famously did flourish, Of whom no word we hear, nor sign now see, But as things wip'd out with a sponge do perish, Because they living cared not to cherish No gentle wits, through pride or covetise, Which might their names for ever memorise.-Spenser.
Thou art my father, thou my author, thou
Let authors write for glory or reward,
None but an author knows an author's cares,
So vain some authors are to beast
Their want of ingenuity, and club
Their affidavit wits, and dub
As false as suborned perjurers,
Butler. Look through the world—in every other trade The same employment 's cause of kindness made, At least appearance of good-will creates, And every fool puffs off the fool he hates: Cobblers with cobblers smoke away the night, And in the common cause e'en players unite: Authors alone, with more than savage rage, Unnatural war with brother authors wage.—Churchill. An author! 't is a venerable name! How few deserve it, and what numbers claim! Unblest with sense above their peers refined, Who shall stand up, dictators to mankind? Nay, who dare shine, if not in virtue's cause, That sole proprietor of just applause? Young. This globe pourtrayed the race of learned men,
Still at their books and turning o'er the page Backwards and forwards: oft they snatched the pen As if inspired, and in a Thespian rage
Then writ and blot, as would your wrath engage. Why authors, all this scrawl and scribbling sore?
To lose the present, gain the future age, Praised to be when you can hear no more, store? And much enriched with fame, when useless worldly
Thomson. One hates an author that 's all author, fellows
In foolscap uniform turned up with ink; So very, anxious, clever, fine, and jealous,
One don't know what to say to them, or think, Unless to puff them with a pair of bellows;
Of coxcombry's worst coxcombs, e'en the pink Are preferable to these shreds of paper, These unquenched snuffings of the midnight taper.
Authority, though it err like others,
Man, proud man,
My soul aches
Thieves for their robbery have authority,
Dost thou expect the authority of their voices, Whose silent will condemns thee? Ben Jonson.
A man in authority is but as
Beaumont and Fletcher.
By this the fool commands the wise,
Authority is a disease and cure,
AUTUMN. Then came the Autumne, all in yellow clad, As though he joyed in his plenteous store, Laden with fruits that made him laugh, full glad That he had banished hunger, which to-fore Had by the belly oft him pinched sore; Upon his head a wreathe that was enrold With ears of corne of every sort, he bore,
And in his hand a sickle he did holde, To reape the ripened fruit the which the earth had yold.
Spenser. Not spring or summer's beauty hath such grace As I have seen in one autumnal face. Donner
Mark how the summer kindly takes her leave,