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In some, ambition is the chief concern;
For this they languish and for this they burn;
For this they smile, for this alone they sigh;
For this they live, for this would freely die.
And man, the image of his God, is found,
Just for an empty name, an airy sound,
Spending the short remainder of his life
In brutal conflict, and in deadly strife:-
For 't is a strife, disguise it as you may,
Keen as the warrior's in the battle day.

J. T. Watson.
I saw a falling leaf soon strew

The soil to which it owed its birth;
I saw a bright star falling, too,

But never reach the quiet earth.
Such is the lowly portion blest-

Such is ambition's foiled endeavour;
The falling leaf is soon at rest,
While stars that fall, fall on for ever.— Anon.


At his touch, (Such sanctity hath heaven given his hand.) They presently amend.


When I a prisoner chained, scarce freely drew
The air imprisoned also, close and damp,
Unwholesome draught; but here I feel amends,
The breath of heaven fresh blowing, pure and sweet,
With day-spring born: here leave me to respire.

Amend your ways, your life amend!
The preacher cries, but few attend;
Or, if awhile they seem to give
Heed to the warning voice, and live
More soberly, 't is ten to one,
That when the fear is past and gone,
They 'll make amends for stinted measure,
And take a double share of pleasure. Egone.

O GRACE serene! O Virtue heavenly fair,
Divine oblivion of low-thoughted care!
Fresh blooming Hope, gay daughter of the sky!
Enter each mild, each amiable guest,
Receive and wrap me in eternal rest.


They see
Through the dun mist, in blooming beauty fresh,
Two lovely youths that amicably walked
O'er verdant meads.


I found my subjects amicable join
To lessen their defects, by citing mine.


For that which thou hast sworn to do amiss,
Is yet amiss when thou hast truly done.

To my sick soul, as sin's true nature is,
Each otoy seems prologue to some great amiss.

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,
Yet I am somewhat better born than you.

She sighed withal, they construed all amiss,
And thought she wished to kill who longed to kiss.

Fairfax, from Tasso.
In vain we seek below for bliss,
There's something ever haps amiss;
The bowl is broke our lips would kiss,
Beneath the flowers the serpents hiss. Egone.





AND sure there seem of human kind

Some born to shun the solemn strife;
Some for amusive tasks designed,

To soothe the certain ills of life,
Grace its lone vales with many a budding rose,

New founts of bliss disclose,
Call forth refreshing shades and decorate repose.

If but amusement were the end of life,
One would not wonder at the

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,
With faltering speech, and visage incomposed.

Where eldest Night
And Chaos, ancestors of nature, hold
Eternal anarchy, amidst the noise
Of endless wars, and by confusion stand. Milton.

Despotic sway, and old tyrannic rule,
Will, in the end, assuredly produce
In body politics an atrophy,
Or else wide-wasting social anarchy. Egone.

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,
How like brute organs are to ours;
They grant, if higher powers think fit,
A bear might soon be made a wit;
And that, for anything in nature,
Pigs might squeak love odes, dogs bark satire.

Pope. .

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.


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It is, indeeed, a blessing, when the virtues
Of noble races are hereditary;
And do derive themselves from th' imitation
Of virtuous ancestors.

They that on glorious ancestors enlarge,
Produce their debt, instead of their discharge.

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?
How oft do they with golden pinions cleave

The flitting skies, like flying pursuivant,
Against foul fiends to aid us militant?
They for us fight, they watch and duly ward,

And their bright squadrons round about us plant;
And all for love, and nothing for reward:
Oh! why should heavenly love to man have such regard?

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?

Mrs. Hemans.

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