And though books, madam, cannot make this mind, Which we must bring apt to be set aright; Yet do they rectify it in that kind, And touch it so, as that it turns that way Where judgement lies: and though we cannot find The certain place of truth, yet do they stay And entertain us near about the same; And give the soul the best delight that may Encheer it most, and most our spirits inflame To thoughts of glory, and to worthy ends. S. DANIEL. A BOOK OF FLESH AND BLOOD There's a lady for my humour! A pretty book of flesh and blood, and well Bound up, in a fair letter, too. Would I Had her, with all the Errata. First I would marry her, that's a verb material, Then I would print her with an _index Expurgatorius_; a table drawn Of her court heresies; and when she's read, _Cum privilegio_, who dares call her wanton? J. SHIRLEY. _The Cardinal._ WOMEN'S EYES From women's eyes this doctrine I derive: They sparkle still the right Promethean fire; They are the books, the arts, the academes, That show, contain, and nourish all the world. W. SHAKESPEARE. _Love's Labour's Lost._ My only books Were woman's looks,-- And folly's all they've taught me. T. MOORE. [Greek: UPOTHÊKÊ EIS EMAUTON] Back to thy books! The swift hours spent in vain Are flown and gone: Thou hast no charm to lure them, or regain What loss hath won. Up from thy sleep! The dream of idle love, So frail and fair, Hath vanished, and its golden wings above Melt in mid air. Stand not, nor gaze astonied at the skies, Serenely cold: They have no answer for thine eager eyes; Thy tale is told. Fool, in all folly cradled, swathed from sense, To trust a toy; To purchase from pronounced indifference A shallow joy; To leave thy studious native heights untrod For that low soil, Where momentary blossoms deck the sod; To pant and toil In hungry chasings of the painted fly, That fluttered past-- Back to thy summits, where what cannot die Survives the blast! There, throned in solitary calm, forget Who wrung thy heart: Long hours and days of silent years may yet Restore a part Of that large heritage and realm sublime, Which, love-elate, Thou fain would'st barter for the fields that time Makes desolate. J. A. SYMONDS. OF A NEW MARRIED STUDENT THAT PLAYED FAST AND LOOSE