45. That he who's right, and he who swerveth, Meet at the goal the same, Where no one hath what he deserveth, Not even an empty name. BARRY CORNWALL. 46. Wooing, wedding, and repenting. _Much Ado About Nothing._ 47. Soft-buzzing _slander_--silky moth that eats An honest name. THOMSON. 48. The blood-extracting bill and filmy wing, The light pump, and freckled feet-- Of the _musquito_. BRYANT. 49. You do not like _but yet_; _But yet_ is as a jailer to bring forth Some monstrous malefactor. _Antony and Cleopatra._ 50. GENTLEMAN.-- You'd rather Ride a day's hunting on an outworn jade, Than _follow in the train of a great man_ In his dull pageantries. BYRON--_Werner_. 50. LADY.--Never yet did housewife notable Greet with a smile a _rainy washing-day_. MRS. BARBAULD. 51. Thou dread'st to see The glowing summer sun, And balmy blossoms on the tree Unfolding one by one; They speak of things which once have been, But never more can be: And earth all deck'd in smiles again Is still a waste to thee. SARAH H. WHITMAN. 52. Softest winds are dreary, And summer sunlight weary, And sweetest things uncheery, You know not why. J. R. LOWELL. 53. The _Guinea-hen_, Which keeps a piercing and perpetual scream. MRS. SIGOURNEY. 54. Sleep, infested with the burning sting Of _bug_ infernal, who the live-long night With direst suction sips thy liquid gore. ROBERT FERGUSON. 55. When you behold a spider Prey on a fly, a magpie on a worm, Or view a butcher, with horn-handled knife, Slaughter a tender lamb as dead as mutton, Indeed, indeed you're very, very sick! HORACE AND JAMES SMITH--_Rejected Addresses_. 56. Where'er that place the priests ca' hell, Whence a' the tones of misery yell, And ranked plagues their numbers tell, In dreadfu' row, Thou, _toothache_, surely bear'st the bell Amang them a'! BURNS. 57. You scorn this hated scene Of masking and disguise, Where men on men still gleam With falseness in their eyes, Where all is counterfeit, And truth hath never say, Where hearts themselves do cheat, Concealing hope's decay, And, writhing at the stake, Themselves do liars make. MOTHERWELL.