_From Byrd's Psalmes, Sonets, &c_. 1588.
My mind to me a kingdom is;
Such perfect joy therein I find,
As far exceeds all earthly bliss
That God and Nature hath assigned.
Though much I want that most would have,
Yet still my mind forbids to crave.
* * * * *
BEILBY PORTEUS.
1731-1808.
_Death, a Poem_. Line 154.
One murder makes a villain,
Millions a hero.
* * * * *
JAMES BEATTIE.
1735-1766.
_The Minstrel_. Book i. St. 1.
Ah! who can tell how hard it is to climb
The steep where Fame's proud temple shines afar?
* * * * *
_The Hermit_. Line 8.
He thought as a sage, but he felt as a man.
* * * * *
_Epigram_. _The Bucks had dined_.
How hard their lot who neither won nor lost.
CHARLES CHURCHILL.
1741-1764.
_The Rosciad_. Line 861.
But spite of all the criticising elves,
Those who would make us feel--must feel themselves.
* * * * *
MRS. THEALE.
1740-1822.
_Three Warnings_.
The tree of deepest root is found
Least willing still to quit the ground;
'Twas therefore said, by ancient sages,
That love of life increased with years
So much, that in our latter stages,
When pains grow sharp, and sickness rages,
The greatest love of life appears.
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