_Drink ye to her_. T. CAMPBELL.
FERDINAND.--Here's my hand.
MIRANDA.--And mine, with my heart in it.
_Tempest, Act iii. Sc. 1_. SHAKESPEARE.
MAN.
How poor, how rich, how abject, how august,
How complicate, how wonderful, is man!
* * * * *
A beam ethereal, sullied, and absorpt!
Though sullied and dishonored, still divine!
Dim miniature of greatness absolute!
An heir of glory! a frail child of dust!
Helpless immortal! insect infinite!
A worm! a god!
* * * * *
What can preserve my life? or what destroy?
An angel's arm can't snatch me from the grave;
Legions of angels can't confine me there.
_Night Thoughts, Night I_. DR. E. YOUNG.
Nature they say, doth dote,
And cannot make a man
Save on some worn-out plan,
Repeating as by rote.
_Commemoration Ode_. J.R. LOWELL.
Man is the nobler growth our realms supply,
And souls are ripened in our northern sky.
_The Invitation_. MRS. A.L. BARBAULD.
'Tis God gives skill,
But not without men's hands: He could not make
Antonio Stradivari's violins
Without Antonio.
_Stradivarius_. GEORGE ELIOT.
Not two strong men the enormous weight could raise;
Such men as live in these degenerate days.
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