V_. R. POLLOK.
God mark thee to his grace!
Thou wast the prettiest babe that e'er I nursed:
An I might live to see thee married once,
I have my wish.
_Romeo and Juliet, Act_ i. _So_. 3. SHAKESPEARE.
Suck, baby! suck! mother's love grows by giving:
Drain the sweet founts that only thrive by wasting!
_The Gypsy's Malison_. C. LAMB.
BATTLE.
Now the storm begins to lower,
(Haste, the loom of hell prepare,)
Iron sleet of arrowy shower
Hurtles in the darkened air.
Glittering lances are the loom,
Where the dusky warp we strain,
Weaving many a soldier's doom,
Orkney's woe, and Randoer's bane.
_The Fatal Sisters_. T. GRAY.
Wheel the wild dance,
While lightnings glance,
And thunders rattle loud;
And call the brave
To bloody grave,
To sleep without a shroud.
_The Dance of Death_. SIR W. SCOTT.
He made me mad
To see him shine so brisk, and smell so sweet,
And talk so like a waiting gentlewoman,
And that it was great pity, so it was,
That villanous saltpetre should be digged
Out of the bowels of the harmless earth,
Which many a good tall fellow had destroyed.
_K. Henry IV., Pt. I. Act i. Sc.3_ SHAKESPEARE.
By Heaven! it is a splendid sight to see
(For one who hath no friend, no brother there)
Their rival scarfs of mixed embroidery.
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