Didst thou but know the inly touch of love, Thou would’st as soon go kindle fire with snow As seek to quench the fire of love with words: The more thou damm’st it up, the more it burns. The current that with gentle murmur glides, Thou know’st, being stopp’d, impatiently doth rage; But when his fair course is not hindered, He makes sweet music with the enamel’d stones; Giving a gentle kiss to every sedge He overtaketh in his pilgrimage: And so by many winding nooks he strays With willing sport, to the wild ocean. Then let me go, and hinder not my course; I’ll be as patient as a gentle stream, And make a pastime of each weary step, Till the last step have brought me to my love: And there I’ll rest, as after much turmoil A blessed soul doth in Elysium. ❦ [Sidenote: The Hottentots.] Among the Hottentots, if a widow marries again, she is obliged to cut off the joint of a finger for every husband she marries after the first: this she presents to her new husband on her wedding day, beginning at one of the little fingers first. ❦ [Sidenote: Sir Charles Sedley.] The painter’s art is done, the features hit, Of Sedley’s face. No art can show his wit. He appeared in public about the year 1667, and is to be considered as one of the first among the men of genius who adorned that age. Charles II. used to tell him, that nature had given him a patent to be Apollo’s viceroy. However, he knew as well how to conceal his own excellencies with modesty, as the rest of the world knew how to value them. It was at the acting of his play called _Bellamira_, that the roof of the play-house fell down. But it was singular, that very few were hurt except himself. His merry friend, Sir Fleetwood Shepherd, told him, “there was so much fire in his play, that it blew up the poet, house, and all.” He replied, “No! The play was so heavy, it broke down the house, and buried the poet in his own rubbish.” ❦ _To a Gentleman, on his complaining of having lost his Gold Watch._ Grieve not, my friend, or peevish say Your luck is worse than common, For “GOLD takes wings, and flies away,” And “TIME will stay for no man.” ❦ _Lines by Lord Erskine, on being asked whether he preferred great Sensibility or Indifference._ The heart can ne’er a transport know, That never felt a pain; That point thus settled long ago, The present question’s vain. Who’d wish to travel life’s dull round, Unmov’d by pain or pleasure? ’Tis reason’s task to set the bound, And keep them all in measure. The Stoic who with false pretence Each soft emotion stifles, Thinks want of feeling shows his sense, Yet frets and fumes at trifles. And he, who vainly boasts the heart Touch’d by each tale of woe, Forbears to act the friendly part That tender heart to show.