494 PLODDING. PLOT. PLOUGH. PLODDING. WHAT have continual plodders ever won, Shakspere. The unlettered christian who believes in gross, Some stupid, plodding, money-loving wight, PLOT. My plots fall short, like darts, which rash hands throw I deal too much among the innocent. Sir Robert Howard. He who envies now thy state, Who now is plotting how he may seduce Milton. O think what anxious moments pass between Made up of horror all, and big with death. Addison. PLOUGH. HERE'S no fantastic masque, nor dance, Nor wars are seen, Unless upon the green Two harmless lambs are battling one the other, Which done, both bleating run, each to his mother; And wounds are never found, Save what the plough-share gives the ground. Sir Walter Raleigh. He that by the plough would thrive, Franklin. POET. 495 POET-POETRY. THE poet's eye, in a fine frenzy rolling, Doth glance from heaven to earth, from earth to heaven; And, as imagination bodies forth The forms of things unknown, the poet's pen Turns them to shapes, and gives to airy nothing Shakspere. It is not poetry that makes men poor; Had loved their ease too well to take the pains Butler. 'Tis long disputed, whether poets claim Francis, from Horace. And thou, sweet poetry, thou loveliest maid, Goldsmith. The world is full of poetry-the air And sparkle in its brightness. Earth is veil'd Never did poesy appear So full of heaven to me, as when Percival. I saw how it would pierce through pride and fear I thought, these men will carry hence James Russell Lowell. Sit still upon your thrones, O ye poetic ones! And if, sooth, the world decry you, Vex not thou the poet's mind Vex not the poet's mind; For thou can'st not fathom it. Clear and bright it should be ever, Miss Barrett. Flowing like a crystal river; Bright as light, and clear as wind. Tennyson. With one poor poet's scroll, and with his word, He shook the world. Tennyson. POET. The poet in a golden clime is born, With golden stars above, 497 Dowered with the hate of hate, the scorn of scorn, The love of love. Take the sweet poetry of life away, There is a pleasure in poetic pains, Tennyson. Wordsworth. Wordsworth Blessings be with them, and eternal praise, Wordsworth. A drainless renown poesy: John Keats. Oh, never had the poet's lute a hope, Upon the present's littleness, and shrink To melt these frozen waters. I see poets darting in splendour, Bright birds from the tropic of mind. Miss Landon. Why mock at each self-deem'd immortal? Poet esteem thy noble part, Sacred historian of the heart, Poetry is itself a thing of God; Miss Jewsbury. R. M. Milnes. He made his prophets poets, and the more Like God in love and power-under makers. Bailey. 498 POLEMICS. POLITICIAN. PORT. POLEMICS. EACH staunch polemic, stubborn as a rock, Came whip and spur. Polemics with religion play As truant children cast From hand to hand the flying ball, Pope. C. C. Colton. As hasty still to show and boast a plot, Sir W. Davenant. A politician must like lightning melt Dull rogues affect the politician's part, Chapman. And learn to nod, and smile, and shrug with art;— Who nothing has to lose, the war bewails; And he, who nothing pays, at taxes rails.-Congreve. A politician, Proteus-like, must alter Mason. PORT. LONG have they voyaged o'er the distant seas; And watch'd all-anxious every wind that blows. Southey. |