tals, and even stones, into gold, and suffers no want to break into its dwellings; it is the north-west passage, that brings the merchan't ships as soon to him as he can desire: in a word it conquers all enemies, and makes fortune itself pay contribution.-Clarendon.

CCXCIV.

A French woman is a perfect architect in dress; she never, with Gothic ignorance, mixes the orders; she never tricks out a squabby Doric shape with Corinthian finery, or to speak without metaphor, she conforms to general fashion, only when it happens not to be repug nant to private beauty.-Goldsmith.

CCXCV.

Give me that man

That is not passion's slave, and I will wear him
In my heart's sore, ay my heart of heart.

CCXCVI.

Shakspeare.

The figures which the ancient mythologists and poets put upon love, in their writings, are very instructive. Love is a beauteous blind child, adorned with a quiver and a bow, which he plays with, and shoots around him without design or direction; to intimate to us, that the person beloved has no intention to give us the anxieties we meet with, but that the beauties of a worthy object are like the charms of a lovely infant; they cannot but attract your concern and fondness, though the child so regarded is as insensible of the value you put upon it, as it is that it deserves your benevolence.-Tatler.

CCXCVII.

Tho' fools spurn Hymen's gentle powers,
We, who improve his golden hours,

By sweet experience know

That marriage, rightly understood,
Gives to the tender and the good,

A paradise below.

Cotton.

CCXCVIII.

The invention of printing has not, perhaps, multiplied books, but only the copies of them; and if we believe there were six hundred thousand in the library of Ptolemy, we shall hardly pretend to equal it by any of ours; not, perhaps, by all put together; I mean so many originals, that have lived any time, and thereby given testimony of their having been thought worth preserving: for the scribblers are infinite, that, like mushrooms or flies, are born and die in a small circle of time; whereas, books, like proverbs, receive their chief value from the stamp and esteem of ages through which they have passed.-Sir W. Temple.

CCXCIX.

It is a common error, and the greater and more mischievous for being so common, to believe that repentance best becomes and most concerns dying men. Indeed, what is necessary every hour of our life is necessary in the hour of death too, and as long as he lives he will have need of repentance, and therefore it is necessary in the hour of death too; but he who hath constantly exercised himself in it in his health and vigour, will do it with less pain in his sickness and weakness; and he who hath practised it all his life, will do it with more ease and less perplexity in the hour of his death: as he who hath diligently cast up every page of a large account, will better be able to state the whole sum upon a little warning in the last leaf, than he can do who must look over every one of them.-Clarendon.

CCC.

The greatest part of poets have apparelled their poetical inventions in that numerous kind of writings, which is called verse. Indeed, but apparelled verse, being but an ornament, and no cause to poetry, since there have been many most excellent poets that never versified, and now swarm many versifiers that need never answer to the name of poets-Sir P. Sidney's Defence of Poesy.

CCCI.

The gain of lying is nothing else but not to be trusted of any, nor to be believed when we say the truth.-Sir W. Raleigh.

CCCII.

Beasts should do

Homage to man, but man shall wait on you:
You are of comelier sight, of daintier touch,
A tender flesh, and colour bright, and such
As Parians see in marble; skin more fair,
More glorious head, and far more glorious hair;
Eyes full of grace and quickness; purer roses
Blush in your cheeks, a milder white composes
Your stately fronts; your breath, more sweet than his,
Breathes spice, and nectar drops at every kiss.

-Perfect creatures, if distraction rise

Against your sex, dispute but with your eyes,
Your hair, your lip, your brow, there will be sent
So subtle and so strong an argument,

Will teach the stoic his affections too,
And call the cynic from his tub to woo.

The Praise of Women-Randolph.

CCCIII.

Though invention be the mother of poetry, yet this child is, like all others, born naked, and must be nourished with care, clothed with exactness and elegance, educated with industry, instructed with art, improved by application, corrected with severity, and accomplished with labour and with time, before it arrive at any great perfection or growth, it is certain that no composition requires so many several ingredients, or of more different sorts, than this: not that to excel in any qualities, there are necessary so many gifts of nature, and so many improvements of learning and of art: for there must be a universal genius, of great compass, as well as great elevation; there must be a sprightly imagination or fancy, fertile in a thousand productions, ranging over infinite ground, piercing into every corner,

and, by the light of that true poetical fire, discovering a thousand little bodies or images in the world, and similitudes among them, unseen to common eyes, and which could not be discovered without the rays of that sun.-Sir W. Temple.

CCCIV.

What story is not full of woman's falsehood?
The sex is all a sea of wide destruction:
We are vent'rous barks, that leave our home
For those sure dangers which their smiles conceal:
At first they draw us in with flattering looks
Of summer calms and a soft gale of sighs:
Sometimes, like Syrens, charm us with their songs,
Dance on the waves, and show their golden locks;
But when the tempest comes, then, then they leave us,
Or rather help the new calamity!

And the whole storm is one injurious woman!
The lightning, followed with a thunderbolt,
Is marble-hearted woman. All the shelves,

The faithless winds, blind rocks, and sinking sands,
Are woman all! the wreck of wretched men.

CCCV.

Lee.

The lightsome countenance of a friend, giveth such an inward decking to the house where it lodgeth, as proudest palaces have cause to envy the gilding.-Sir P. Sidney.

CCCVI.

A sergeant, or catch-pole, is one of God's judgments; and which our roarers do only conceive terrible. He is the properest shape wherein they fancy Satan; for he is at most but an arrester, and hell a dungeon. He is the creditor's hawk, wherewith they seize upon flying birds, and fetch them again in his talons. He is the period of young gentlemen, or their full stop, for when he meets with them they can go no farther. His ambush is a shop-stall, or close lane, and his assault is cowardly at your back. He respites you in no place but a tavern, where he sells his minutes dearer than a clock-maker. The common way to run from

him is through him, which is often attempted and achieved, [and no man is more beaten out of charity.] He is one makes the street more dangerous than the highways, and men go better provided in their walks than their journey. He is the first hansel of the young rapiers of the templers; and they are as proud of his repulse as a Hungarian of killing a Turk. He is a moveable prison, and his hands two manacles, hard to be filed off. He is an occcasioner of disloyal thoughts in the commonwealth, for he makes men hate the king's name worse than the devil's.-Bishop Earle.

CCCVII.

The same pride that erects a colossus, or a pyramid, instals a god or a hero: but though the adoring savage can raise his colossus to the clouds, he can exalt the hero not one inch above the standard of humanity; incapable, therefore, of exalting the idol, he debases himself, and falls prostrate before him.-Goldsmith.

CCCVIII.

The certain way to be cheated, is to fancy one's self more cunning than others.-Charron.

СССІХ.

A flatterer is compared to an ape, who because she cannot defend the house like a dog, labour as an ox, or bear burdens as a horse, doth therefore yet play tricks, and provoke laughter-Sir W. Raleigh.

CCCX.

Alas! poor Yorick!-I knew him; a fellow of infinite jest; of most excellent fancy: he hath borne me on his back a thousand times; and now, how abhorred in my imagination it is! my gorge rises at it. Here hung those lips, that I have kissed I know not how oft. Where be your gibes now? your gambols? your songs? your flashes of merriment, that were wont to set the table on a roar? No one now, to mock your own grinning? quite chap-fallen? Now get you to my