Part 57

EPES SARGENT.

16. To hear the French talk French around you, And wonder how they understand each other; To hearken, and find all attempts confound you At guessing what they mean by all their pother.

BYRON--Giuseppino.

17. Books! out upon them; faithless chroniclers Mere wordy counsellors--cold comforters In the hour of sorrow.

LADY FLORA HASTINGS.

18. Your curse upon the venom'd slang That shoots your tortured gums alang, An' through your lugs gies mony a twang, Wi' gnawing vengeance; Tearing your nerves wi' bitter pang, Like racking engines.

BURNS.

19. As for stupid reason, That stalking, ten-foot rule, She's always out of season, A tedious, testy fool.

MRS. FOLLEN.

20. GENTLEMAN.--That most active member of mortal things, A woman's tongue; something like a smoke-jack, For it goes ever, without winding up.

JOHN TOBIN--Honey Moon.

20. LADY.--You would rather hear your dog bark at a crow, Than a man swear he loves you.

Much Ado About Nothing.

21. Age is dark and unlovely; it is like the glimmering light of the moon when it shines through broken clouds, and the mist is on the hills: the blast of the north is on the plain; the traveller shrinks in the midst of his journey.

OSSIAN.

22. To have odd quirks and remnants of wit broken on you.

Much Ado About Nothing.

23. Whenever a change is wrought, And you know not the reason why, In your own or an old friend's thought.

BARRY CORNWALL.

24. You are weary of the endless theme of Cupid's smiles and sighs, You are sick of reading rigmaroles about "my lady's eyes;" You cannot move, you cannot look around, below, above, But men and women, birds and bees, are prating about love.

R. M. CHARLTON.

25. You hate ingratitude more in man, Than lying, vainness, babbling, drunkenness, Or any taint of vice whose strong corruption Inhabits our frail blood.

Twelfth Night.

26. There are haughty steps that would walk the globe O'er necks of humbler ones; You would scorn to bow to their jewell'd robes, Or the beam of their coin-lit suns.

MISS L. P. SMITH.

27. You'd rather hear a brazen candlestick turn'd, Or a dry wheel grate on an axle-tree, And that would set your teeth nothing on edge, Nothing so much as mincing poetry.

Henry IV.

28. In your soul you loathe All affectation. 'Tis your perfect scorn, Object of your implacable disgust.