40. You are a soul so white and so chaste, As nothing called foul Dares approach with a blot, Or any least spot; But still you control Or make your own lot, Preserving love pure as it first was begot. BEN JONSON. 41. The power you wield has its best spells in love, And gentleness, and thought; never in scorn, Or any wayward impulse or caprice. W. G. SIMMS. 42. You love to listen better than to talk, And, rather than be gadding, would sit quiet;-- Hate cards, and cordials. TOBIN. 43. You do not love As _men_ love, who love often. Yours has been A single sentiment for one alone, An all-engrossing passion, which doth live On hope and faith. ELIZABETH BOGART. 44. Thou talkest well, but talking is thy privilege; 'Tis all the boasted courage of thy sex. NICHOLAS ROWE--_Tamerlane_. 45. Thoughts go sporting through your mind Like children among flowers, And deeds of gentle goodness are The measure of your hours. In soul or face you bear no trace Of one from Eden driven, But, like the rainbow, seem, though born Of earth, a part of heaven! GEORGE HILL. 46. All things thou art by turns, from wrath to love, From the queen eagle, to the vestal dove. BARRY CORNWALL. 47. You've turn'd up your nose at the short, And cast down your eyes at the tall; But then you just did it in sport, And now you've no lover at all. G. P. MORRIS. 48. Alive to feel and curious to explore Each distant object of refined distress. WHITEHEAD--_Roman Father_. 49. You have a soul Of god-like mould, intrepid and commanding: But you have passions which outstrip the wind, And tear your virtues up. CONGREVE--_Mourning Bride_. 50. There's not a lovely transient thing But brings thee to our mind! The rainbow, or the fragile flower, Sweet summer's fading joys, The waning moon, the dying day, The passing glories of the clouds, The leaf that brightens as it falls, The wild tones of the Æolian harp, All tell some touching tale of thee; There's not a tender lovely thing But brings thee to our mind. MRS. FOLLEN. 51. 'Tis not your part, Out of your fond misgivings, to perplex The fortunes of the man to whom you cleave; 'Tis yours to weave all that you have of fair And bright, in the dark meshes of their web. TALFOURD--_Ion_.