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That disease Of which all old men sicken, avarice. THOMAS MIDDLETON—The Roaring Girl. Act
I. Sc. 1. (See also BYRON)
How are the veins of thee, Autumn, laden?
And pulped oozes
With hair that musters
In globèd clusters, In tumbling clusters, like swarthy grapes, Round thy brow and thine ears o'ershaden; With the burning darkness of eyes like pansies,
Like velvet pansies
Where through escapes The splendid might of thy conflagrate fancies; With robe gold-tawny not hiding the shapes
Of the feet whereunto it falleth down,
Thy naked feet unsandalled;
Feet where the red
Is meshed in the brown, Like a rubied sun in a Venice-sail. FRANCIS THOMPSON-A Corymbus for Autumn.
This avarice Strikes deeper, grows with more pernicious root.
Macbeth. Act IV. Sc. 3. L. 84.
Crown'd with the sickle and the wheaten sheaf, While Autumn, nodding o'er the yellow plain, Comes jovial on.
THOMSON-Seasons. Autumn. L. 1.
We lack but open eye and ear
(See also E. B. BROWNING)
AVARICE So for a good old-gentlemanly vice, I think I must take up with avarice. BYRON—Don Juan. Canto I. St. 216.
(See also MIDDLETON)
With ridiculous and awkward action,
Troilus and Cressida. Act I, Sc. 3. L. 149.
Avaritiam si tollere vultis, mater ejus est tollenda, luxuries.
If you wish to remove avarice you must remove its mother, luxury. CICERODe Oratore. II. 40.
Ac primam scelerum matrem, quæ semper ha
bendo Plus sitiens patulis rimatur faucibus aurum, Trudis Avaritiam.
Expel avarice, the mother of all wickedness, who, always thirsty for more, opens wide her jaws for gold. CLAUDIANUS—De Laudibus Stilichonis. II.
Farewell, my friends! farewell, my foes! My peace with these, my love with those. The bursting tears my heart declare; Farewell, the bonnie banks of Ayr.
BURNS—The Banks of Ayr.
Rhododendron And in the woods a fragrance rare Of wild azaleas fills the air, And richly tangled overhead We see their blossoms sweet and red. DORA READ GOODALE-Spring Scatters Far
and Wide. 20 The fair azalea bows Beneath its snowy crest.
SARAH H. WAITMAN—She Blooms no More.
Crescit amor nummi quantum ipsa pecunia crescit.
The love of pelf increases with the pelf. JUVENAL—Satires. XIV. 139.
And moor herself within my room
My daughter! O my daughter!
Have you not heard the poets tell How came the dainty Baby Bell Into this world of ours?
T. B. ALDRICH-Baby Bell.
Oh those little, those little blue shoes! Those shoes that no little feet use.
Oh, the price were high
That those shoes would buy, Those little blue unused shoes!
WILLIAM C. BENNETT—Baby's Shoes.
Lullaby, baby, upon the tree top;
soil.” Author a Pilgrim youth who came
Lo! at the couch where infant beauty sleeps; Her silent watch the mournful mother keeps; She, while the lovely babe unconscious lies, Smiles on her slumbering child with pensive eyes.
CAMPBELL-Pleasures of Hope. Pt. I. L. 225. He is so little to be so large! Why, a train of cars, or a whale-back barge Couldn't carry the freight Of the monstrous weight Of all of his qualities, good and great. And tho' one view is as good as another, Don't take my word for it. Ask his mother!
EDMUND VANCE COOKE—The Intruder.
12 “The hand that rocks the cradle”—but there is
no such hand. It is bad to rock the baby, they would have us
understand; So the cradle's but a relic of the former foolish
days, When mothers reared their children in unscien
Rock-bye-baby on the tree top,
CHARLES DUPEE BLAKE.
Sweet babe, in thy face
WILLIAM BLAKE-A Cradle Song.
When they jounced them and they bounced
them, those poor dwarfs of long agoThe Washingtons and Jeffersons and Adamses, Ascribed to BISHOP DOANE–What Might
Have Been. A complaint that for hygienic reasons, he was not allowed to play with his grandchild in the old-fashioned way.
(See also WALLACE under MOTHERHOOD) When you fold your hands, Baby Louise! Your hands like a fairy's, so tiny and fair, With a pretty, innocent, saintlike air, Are you trying to think of some angel-taught
prayer You learned above, Baby Louise. MARGARET EYTINGE–Baby Louise.
How lovely he appears! his little cheeks
BYRON-Cain. Act III. Sc. 1. L. 14.
Where did you come from, baby dear?
of The North Wind.” Ch. XXXIII.
Suck, baby! suck! mother's love grows by giv
ing: Drain the sweet founts that only thrive by
wasting! Black manhood comes when riotous guilty living Hands thee the cup that shall be death in tasting. CHARLES LAMB—The Gypsy's Malison. Son
net in Letter to Mrs. Procter, Jan. 29, 1829.
And thou hast stolen a jewel, Death!
GERALD MASSEY--Babe Christabel.
The hair she means to have is gold,
Plump are her fists and pinky.
I call her “Little Dinky." FRED. LOCKER-LAMPSON—Little Dinky.
You scarce could think so small a thing
Could leave a loss so large; Her little light such shadow fling
From dawn to sunset's marge. In other springs our life may be
In bannered bloom unfurled,
White Rose of all the world.
14 A sweet, new blossom of Humanity, Fresh fallen from God's own home to flower on
earth. GERALD MASSEY-Wooed and Won.
A tight little bundle of wailing and flannel, Perplex'd with the newly found fardel of life.
FRED. LOCKER-LAMPSON—The Old Cradle.
O child! O new-born denizen
LONGFELLOW—To a Child.
Wee Willie Winkie rins through the toun,
As living jewels dropped unstained from heaven.
POLLOCK—Course of Time. Bk. V. L. 158.
A baby was sleeping,
SAMUEL LOVER-Angel's Whisper.
Out of the mouth of babes and sucklings hast thou ordained strength.
Psalms. VIII. 2.
7 Her beads while she numbered,
The baby still slumbered, And smiled in her face, as she bended her knee;
Oh! bless'd be that warning,
My child, thy sleep adorning, For I know that the angels are whispering with
thee. SAMUEL LOVER—Angel's Whisper.
He seemed a cherub who had lost his way
Fie, fie, how wayward is this foolish love
How did they all just come to be you?
The North Wind." Ch. XXXIII.
A daughter and a goodly babe, Lusty and like to live: the queen receives Much comfort in 't.
Winter's Tale. Act II. Sc. 2. L. 27.
A little soul scarce fledged for earth
Takes wing with heaven again for goal, Even while we hailed as fresh from birth
A little soul.
But what am I?
TENNYSON–In Memoriam. Pt. LIV. St. 5. (See also BURTON, under BIRTH; CROUCH, under
DEATH; also KING LEAR, SAXE, under LIFE)
I have a passion for ballads. are the gypsy children of song, born under green hedgerows in the leafy lanes and bypaths of literature, in the genial Summertime.
LONGFELLOW-Hyperion. Bk. II. Ch. II. For a ballad's a thing you expect to find lies in.
SAMUEL LOVER-Paddy Blake's Echo. More solid things do not show the complexion of the times so well as Ballads and Libels. JOHN SELDON-Libels. (Libels-pamphlets,
libellum, a small book.) I had rather be a kitten, and cry mew! Than one of these same metre ballad-mongers.
Henry IV. Pt. I. Act III. Sc. 1. L. 129. 17
I love a ballad but even too well; if it be doleful matter, merrily set down, or a very pleasant thing indeed, and sung lamentably.
Winter's Tale. Act IV. Sc. 4. L. 187.
Beat upon mine, little heart! beat, beat!
Baby smiled, mother wailed,
When to earth came Viola.
A famous man is Robin Hood,
WORDSWORTH—Rob Roy's Grave.
A babe in a house is a well-spring of pleasure.
BANISHMENT The world was all before them, where to choose Their place of rest, and Providence their guide; They, hand in hand, with wandering steps and
slow, Through Eden took their solitary way.
MILTON—Paradise Lost. Bk. XII. L. 646.
Had we no other quarrel else to Rome, but that
Coriolanus. Act IV. Sc. 5. L. 133.
No, my good lord: banish Peto, banish Bardolph, banish Poins; but for sweet Jack Falstaff, kind Jack Falstaff, true Jack Falstaff, valiant Jack Falstaff, and therefore more valiant, being as he is old Jack Falstaff, banish not him thy Harry's company: banish plump Jack and banish all the world.
Henry IV. Pt. I. Act II. Sc. 4. L. 520.
Those matted woods where birds forget to sing. But silent bats in drowsy clusters cling.
GOLDSMITH—The Deserted Village. L. 345.
Thy boist'rous locks, no worthy match
MILTON-Samson Agonistes. L. 1,167.
The first (barbers) that entered Italy came out of Sicily and it was in the 454 yeare after the foundation of Rome. Brought in they were by P. Ticinius Mena as Verra doth report for before that time they never cut their hair. The first that was shaven every day was Scipio Africanus, and after him cometh Augustus the Emperor who evermore used the rasor. PLINY—Natural History. Bk. VII. Ch. LIX.
On the bat's back I do fly
Tempest. Act V. Sc. 1. L. 91.
Whose beard they have sing'd off with brands
of fire; And ever, as it blaz’d, they threw on him Great pails of puddled mire to quench the hair: My master preaches patience to him and the
while His man with scissors nicks him like a fool.
Comedy of Errors. Act V. Sc. 1. L. 171.
And his chin new reap'd, Show'd like a stubble-land at harvest-home.
Henry IV. Pt. I. Act I. Sc. 3. L. 34.
What is lovely never dies, But passes into other loveliness, Star-dust, or sea-foam, flower or winged air.
T. B. ALDRICH-A Shadow of the Night.
I must not say that she was true,
Yet let me say that she was fair; And they, that lovely face who view,
They should not ask if truth be there. MATTHEW ARNOLD—Euphrosyne.
The barber's man hath been seen with him, and the old ornament of his cheek hath already stuffed tennis-balls. Much Ado About Nothing. Act III. Sc. 2.
John Wolcot—Farewell Odes. Ode 3.
The beautiful are never desolate;
night. L. 370.