6. You never speak the word _farewell_ But with an utterance faint and broken, A heart-sick yearning for the time When it shall never more be spoken. BOWLES. 7. GENTLEMAN.--Now, my lord, as for tripe, it's your utter aversion. GOLDSMITH--_Haunch of Venison_. 7. LADY.--An _exquisite_ of the highest stamp. ALBERT PIKE. 8. To see Things of no better mould Than thou thyself art, greedily In Fame's bright page enroll'd. MOTHERWELL. 9. Weaving spiders.-- Hence, you long-legged spinners, hence! _Midsummer Night's Dream._ 10. You have no taste for _pomp_ and _strife_, Which others love to find; Your only wish, that bliss of life, A poor and quiet mind. CLARE. 11. You like not this _phrenology_, This system of unfolding The secret of a man's desires To every one's beholding. R. M. CHARLTON. 12. The sullen passion, and the hasty pet, The swelling lip, the tear-distended eye, The peevish question, the perverse reply. HAYLEY--_Triumphs of Temper_. 13. Nor do you love that common phrase of guests, As, _we make bold_, or, _we are troublesome_; _We take you unprovided_, and the like; ----nor that common phrase of hosts, _Oh, had I known your coming, we'd have had_ _Such things and such_; nor blame of cook, to say, _This dish or that hath not been served with care_. THOMAS HEYWOOD AND RICHARD BROOME--_The Late Lancashire Witches_. 14. Tales of love were wont to weary you; I know you joy not in a _love-discourse_. _Two Gentlemen of Verona._ 15. 'Tis a dreary thing to be _Tossing on the wide, wide sea_, When the sun has set in clouds, And the wind sighs through the shrouds, With a voice and with a tone Like a living creature's moan! EPES SARGENT. 16. _To hear the French talk French_ around you, And wonder how they understand each other; To hearken, and find all attempts confound you At guessing what they mean by all their pother. BYRON--_Giuseppino_. 17. _Books!_ out upon them; faithless chroniclers Mere wordy counsellors--cold comforters In the hour of sorrow. LADY FLORA HASTINGS. 18. Your curse upon the venom'd slang That shoots your tortured _gums_ alang, An' through your lugs gies mony a twang, Wi' gnawing vengeance; Tearing your nerves wi' bitter pang, Like racking engines. BURNS.