This senior-junior, giant-dwarf, Dan Cupid: 
Regent of love-rhymes, lord of folded arms,
The anointed sovereign of sighs and groans.
Love’s Labor’s Lost, Act iii.  Sc. 1.  SHAKESPEARE.

  No wonder Cupid is a murderous boy: 
  A fiery archer making pain his joy. 
  His dam, while fond of Mars, is Vulcan’s wife,
  And thus ’twixt fire and sword divides her life.
Greek Anthology.  MELEAGER.

  The gods are just, and of our pleasant vices
  Make instruments to plague us.
King Lear, Act v.  Sc. 3.  SHAKESPEARE.

  Wilt thou draw near the nature of the gods? 
  Draw near them then in being merciful;
  Sweet mercy is nobility’s true badge.
Titus Andronicus, Act i.  Sc. 1.  SHAKESPEARE.

GOOD.

  What good I see humbly I seek to do,
  And live obedient to the law, in trust
  That what will come, and must come, shall come well.
The Light of Asia.  SIR E. ARNOLD.

  There shall never be one lost good!  What was shall live as before;
  The evil is null, is nought, is silence implying sound.
Abt Vogler, IX.  R. BROWNING.

  Now, at a certain time, in pleasant mood,
  He tried the luxury of doing good.
Tales of the Hall, Bk.  III.  G. CRABBE.

                        ’T is well said again;
  And ’t is a kind of good deed to say well: 
  And yet words are no deeds.
King Henry VIII., Act iii.  Sc. 2.  SHAKESPEARE.

  Look round the habitable world, how few
  Know their own good, or, knowing it, pursue!
Juvenal, Satire X.  J. DRYDEN.

These are thy glorious works, Parent of good! Paradise Lost, Bk.  V.  MILTON.

GRATITUDE.

The still small voice of gratitude. For Music.  T. GRAY.

                         A grateful mind
  By owing owes not, but still pays, at once
  Indebted and discharged.
Paradise Lost, Bk.  IV.  MILTON.

  I’ve heard of hearts unkind, kind deeds
    With coldness still returning;
  Alas! the gratitude of men
    Hath oftener left me mourning.
Simon Lee.  W. WORDSWORTH.

Beggar that I am, I am even poor in thanks. Hamlet, Act ii.  Sc. 2.  SHAKESPEARE.

GRAVE, THE.

There is a calm for those who weep,
A rest for weary pilgrims found,
They softly lie and sweetly sleep
Low in the ground.
The Grave.  J. MONTGOMERY.

Ah, the grave’s a quiet bed: 
She shall sleep a pleasant sleep,
And the tears that you may shed
Will not wake her—­therefore weep!
The Last Scene.  W. WINTER.

O, snatched away in beauty’s bloom,
On thee shall press no ponderous tomb;
But on thy turf shall roses rear
Their leaves, the earliest of the year,
And the wild cypress wave in tender gloom: 
O, Snatched Away!  LORD BYRON.