WOOD.

UNDER the greenwood tree,
Who loves to lie with me,
And tune his merry note
Unto the sweet bird's throat,

Come hither, come hither, come hither;
Here shall he see

No enemy,

But winter and rough weather.

Shakspere.

The greenwood! the greenwood! what bosom but allows The gladness of the charm that dwells in thy pleasant whispering boughs.

How often in this weary world, I pine and long to

flee,

And lay me down as I was wont under the greenwood William Howitt.

tree.

Come to the woodlands! Summer hath unfurled
Her glowing banner to the drowsy wind!
Leave for awhile the stern ungentle world,

Where love soon wearies, friendship grows unkind! Where the keen shafts of care are thickly hurled, Till unto death the wounded heart hath pined. Come where broad boughs in twining arches meet, And flowers untroubled by the sultry heat,

Delay our willing feet

Where nature sits beside the hidden streams,
Filling the mid-day twilight with sweet sylvan dreams.
Westby Gibson.

And more than all, the shady woods,
Where mossy banks abound,—
And dingles where the painted hoods
Of foxgloves still are found;

Where here a glade, and there a glen,
And up and down them twain,
Quaint little brooks run out and in,
As if they tried to gain

The secret life of leafiness

By dint of questings vain.-Calder Campbell.

So well he woo'd her, and so well he wrought her,
With fair entreaty and sweet blandishment,
That at the length unto a bay he brought her,
So that she to his speeches was content
To lend an ear, and softly to relent.

Spenser.

But tho' I lov'd you well, I wooed you not:
And yet, good faith, I wish'd myself a man;
Or, that we women had men's privilege
Of speaking first.

Shakspere.

We cannot fight for love, as men may do;
We should be woo'd, and were not made to woo.
Shakspere.

We are forced to woo, because none dare woo us:
And as a tyrant doubles with his words,
And fearfully equivocates, so we

Are forced to express our violent passions

In riddles, and in dreams, and leave the pith
Of simple virtue, which was never made
To seem the thing it is not.

Woo the fair one when around
Early birds are singing;

When o'er all the fragrant ground,
Early flowers are springing;

John Webster.

When the brookside, bank, and grove,

All with blossoms laden,

Shine with beauty, breathe of love,

Woo the timid maiden.

Wooing life, as I woo thee,

W. C. Bryant.

Death attends on shore and sea,
All mankind-the loved and loving!
Let us, then, each high endeavour
Use, that so our love for ever
Live, where no removing
Pang of death can be.

Calder Campbell.

WORDS.

HERE are a few of the unpleasant'st words
That ever blotted paper.

Shakspere.

I think good thoughts, while others write good words,
And like unlettered clerks, still cry amen
To every hymn that abler spirit affords,
In polished form of well-refined words.

Shakspere.

Throughout the world if it were sought,
Fair words enough a man shall find;
They be good cheap, they cost right nought,
Their substance is but only wind:

But well to say, and so to mean,
That sweet accord is seldom seen.

Sir Thomas Wyatt.

Words are the soul's ambassadors that go
Abroad upon her errands to and fro;
They are the sole expounders of the mind,
And correspondence keep 'twixt all mankind.

James Howell. What you keep by you, you may change and mend, But words once spoke can never be recall'd.

Roscommon.

Words are like leaves, and where they most abound,
Much fruit of sense beneath is rarely found.—Pope.
His words seemed oracles,

That pierced their bosoms; and each man would turn
And gaze in wonder in his neighbour's face,
That with the like dumb wonder answered him.
You could have heard

The beating of your pulses while he spake.

George Croly.

A word is ringing through my brain;
It was not meant to give me pain;
It had no tone to bid it stay,
When other things had passed away;
It had no meaning more than all
Which in an idle hour may fall;

It was, when first the sound I heard,

A lightly-uttered careless word. Mrs. Norton.

WORK, work, work!

From weary chime to chime,
Work, work, work!

As prisoners work for crime.
Band, and gusset, and seam,
Seam, and gusset, and band,

Till the heart is sick and the brain benumb'd,
As well as the weary hand.

Work, work, work,

In the dull December light,
And work, work, work,

When the weather is warm and bright.
While underneath the eaves

The brooding swallows cling,
As if to show their sunny backs,
And twit me with their spring.

Thomas Hood.

Run if you like, but try to keep your breath,
Work like a man, but don't be work'd to death.
O. W. Holmes.

Who lags for dread of daily work,
And his appointed task would shirk,
Commits a folly and a crime;
A soulless slave,

A paltry knave,

A clog upon the wheels of time,
With work to do, and store of health,
The man's unworthy to be free,
Who will not give,

That he may live,

His daily toil for daily fee.

The time is short, the world is wide,

And much has to be done,

This wondrous earth, and all its pride,
Will vanish with the sun!

The moments fly on lightning wings,
And life's uncertain too;

We've none to waste on foolish things,
There's work enough to do.

Mackay.

J. Burbidge

WORLD.

1. You have too much respect upon the world; They lose it that do buy it with much care. 2.-I hold the world but as the world; A stage where every man must play his part, And mine a sad one.

How weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable,
Seem to me all the uses of the world!
Fie on 't! O, fie! 't is an unweeded garden,

Shakspere.

That grows to seed; things rank, and gross in nature Possess it merely. Shakspere.

The world's a hive,

From whence thou can'st derive

No good, but what thy soul's vexation brings:
But case thou meet

Some petty, petty sweet,

Fach drop is guarded with a thousand stings.

is a very good world that we live in, To lend, or to spend, or to give in,

Quarles.

But to beg, or to borrow, or get a man's own,
'Tis the very worst world, sir, that ever was known.
Old Song.
'Tis pleasant, through the loopholes of retreat,
T peep at such a world; to see the stir
O' the great Babel, and not feel the crowd;

To hear the roar she sends through all her gates,
A a safe distance, where the dying sound
Falls a soft murmur on th' uninjur'd ear.

O! it is beautiful to see this world
Pased in the crystal air, with all its seas,
Muntains, and plains, majestically rolling
Aound its noiseless axis, day by day,

Aid year by year, and century after century;

Cowper.

Ad as it turns, still wheeling through the immense O ether, circling the resplendent sun

Ir calm and simple grandeur.

Atherstone.