True beauty dwells in deep retreats,
    Whose veil is unremoved
  Till heart with heart in concord beats,
    And the lover is beloved.
To ——­ W. WORDSWORTH.

  With thee, all toils are sweet; each clime hath charms;
  Earth—­sea alike—­our world within our arms.
The Bride of Abydos.  LORD BYRON.

  What’s mine is yours, and what is yours is mine.
Measure for Measure, Act v.  Sc. 1.  SHAKESPEARE. 
  He was a lover of the good old school,
  Who still become more constant as they cool.
Beppo, Canto XXXIV, LORD BYRON.

  Drink ye to her that each loves best,
    And if you nurse a flame
  That’s told but to her mutual breast,
    We will not ask her name.
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.
Iliad, Bk.  V.  HOMER. Trans. of POPE.

Be wise with speed: 
A fool at forty is a fool indeed.
Love of Fame, Satire II.  DR. E. YOUNG.

What tho’ short thy date? 
Virtue, not rolling suns, the mind matures. 
That life is long which answers life’s great end. 
The time that bears no fruit deserves no name. 
The man of wisdom is the man of years. 
In hoary youth Methusalems may die;
O, how misdated on their flatt’ring tombs!
Night Thoughts, Night V.  DR. E. YOUNG.

                                    Man! 
   Thou pendulum betwixt a smile and tear.
Childe Harold, Canto IV.  LORD BYRON.