_Sonnet_. SIR A. DE VERE.
For Satan finds some mischief still
For idle hands to do.
_Song XX_. DR. I. WATTS.
ILLNESS.
As man, perhaps, the moment of his breath,
Receives the lurking principle of death,
The young disease, that must subdue at length,
Grows with his growth, and strengthens with his strength.
_Essay on Man, Epistle II_. A. POPE.
Diseases desperate grown
By desperate appliance are relieved,
Or not at all.
_Hamlet, Act iv. Sc. 3_. SHAKESPEARE.
So when a raging fever burns,
We shift from side to side by turns,
And 'tis a poor relief we gain
To change the place, but keep the pain.
_Hymns and Spiritual Songs, Bk. II. Hymn 146_. DR. I. WATTS.
Long pains are light ones,
Cruel ones are brief!
_Compensation_. J.G. SAXE.
Then with no throbs of fiery pain,
No cold gradations of decay,
Death broke at once the vital chain,
And freed his soul the nearest way.
_Verses on Robert Levet_. DR. S. JOHNSON.
IMAGINATION.
Within the soul a faculty abides,
That with interpositions, which would hide
And darken, so can deal that they become
Contingencies of pomp; and serve to exalt
Her native brightness. As the ample moon,
In the deep stillness of a summer even
Rising behind a thick and lofty grove,
Burns, like an unconsuming fire of light,
In the green trees; and, kindling on all sides
Their leafy umbrage, turns the dusky veil
Into a substance glorious as her own.
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