I'll range the plenteous intellectual field, And gather every thought of sovereign power To chase the moral maladies of man; Thoughts which may bear transplanting to the skies, Nor wholly wither there where Seraphs sing, Refined, exalted,—not annull'd—in heaven. YOUNG. Let every man enjoy his whim; What's he to me, or I to him. CHURCHILL. And whereas I may seem too smart or satyrical in some particular places, I do not at all repent me, as thinking what is said to such ill-deserving persons much too little. THOMAS MACE. —Play the fool with wits, 'Gainst fools be guarded, 'tis a certain rule Wits are safe things; there's danger in a fool. CHURCHILL. And in this thought they find a kind of ease, Bearing their own misfortune on the back Of such as have before endured the like. RICHARD II. Our life indeed has bitterness enough To change a loving nature into gall: Experience sews coarse patches on the stuff Whose texture was originally all Smooth as the rose-leaf's, and whose hues were bright As are the colours of the weeping cloud When the sun smiles upon its tears. MRS. LENOX CONYNGHAM. Thus much we know, eternal bliss and pure, By God's unfailing promise, is secure To them who their appointed lot endure Meekly, striving to fulfil, In humble hopefulness, God's will. MRS. LENOX CONYNGHAM. I thowt how hard it is to denye A ladye's preyer, wych after the entent Of the poete is a myghty comaundement; Wherfore me thoht as in this caas That my wyt war lakkyd bettyr it was That my wyl, and therfore to do My ladyes preyer I assentyd to. OSBERN BOKENAM. _Al peco de los años lo eminente se rinde; que à lo facil del tiempo no ay conquista dificil._ CALDERON. We only meet on earth That we may know how sad it is to part: And sad indeed it were, if in the heart There were no store reserved against a dearth, No calm Elysium for departed Mirth, Haunted by gentle shadows of past pleasure, Where the sweet folly, the light-footed measure, And graver trifles of the shining hearth Live in their own dear image. HARTLEY COLERIDGE. Sweet are the thoughts that smother from conceit: For when I come and sit me down to rest, My chair presents a throne of majesty; And when I set my bonnet on my head, Methinks I fit my forehead for a crown; And when I take a truncheon in my fist, A sceptre then comes tumbling in my thoughts. ROBERT GREENE.