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Rom. In bed, asleep, while they do dream things true.

Mer. O, then I see; queen Mab hath been with you. She is the fairies' midwife; and she comes In shape no bigger than an agate-stone On the fore-finger of an alderman, Drawn with a team of little atomies Athwart men's noses as they lie asleep; Her wagon-spokes made of long spinners' legs; The cover, of the wings of grasshoppers; The traces, of the smallest spider's web; The collars, of the moonshine's wat’ry beams; Her whip, of cricket's bone; the lash, of film; Her wagonner, a small grey-coated gnat, Not half so big as a round little worm Prick'd from the lazy finger of a maid: Her chariot is an empty hazel nut, Made by the joiner squirrel, or old grub, Time out of mind the fairies' coachmakers. And in this state she gallops night by night Through lovers' brains, and then they dream of love; On courtiers' knees, that dream on courtsies straight; O’er lawyers' fingers, who straight dream on fees: O’er ladies' lips, who straight on kisses dream; Which oft the angry Mab with blisters plagues, Because their breaths with sweetmeats tainted are. Sometimes she gallops o’er a courtier's nose, And then dreams he of smelling out a suit: And sometimes comes she with a tithe-pig's tail, Tickling a parson's nose as 'a lies asleep; Then dreams he of another benefice: Sometimes she driveth o’er a soldier's neck, And then dreams he of cutting foreign throats, Of breaches, ambuscades, Spanish blades, Of healths five fathom deep; and then anon Drums in his ear; at which he starts, and wakes; - And, being thus frighted; swears a prayer or two, And sleeps again. This is that very Mab, That plats the manes of horses in the night; And bakes the elf-locks in foul sluttish hairs, Which once untangled, much misfortune bodes.

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DCCCCXXXIV. If I should grant that in the ebullitions of a violent passion, one may love another better than himself, who should I most oblige, the lovers or the mistresses! 'Bruyere.

Good men, like the sea, should still maintain
Their noble taste, in midst of all fresh humours,
That flow about them, to corrupt their streams,
Bearing no season, much less salt of goodness.

Ben Jonson. DCCCCXXXVI. Notwithstanding man's essential perfection is but very little, his comparative perfection may be very considera. ble. If he looks upon himself in an abstracted light, he has not much to boast of; but if he considers himself with regard to others, he may find occasion of glorying, if not in his own virtues, at least in the absence of another's imperfections. This gives a different turn to the reflections of the wise man and the fool. The first endeavours to shine in himself, and the last to outshine others. The first is' humbled by the sense of his own infirmities, the last is lifted up by the discovery of those which he observes in other men. The wise man considers what he wants, and the fool what he abounds in. The wise man is happy when he gains his own approbation, and the fool when he recommends himself to the applause of those about him.--Addison.

A woman moved, is like a fountain troubled,
Muddy, ill-seeming, thick, bereft of beauty;
And, while it is so, none so dry or thirsty
Will deign to sip, or touch one drop of it.

Shakspeare. DCCCCXXXVIII. There is speaking well, speaking easily, speaking justly, and speaking seasonably: It is offending against the last, to speak of entertainments before the indigent; of sound limbs and health before the infirm; of houses

and lands before one who has not so much as a dwelling; in a word, to speak of your prosperity before the mise. rable; this conversation is cruel, and the comparison which naturally rises in them betwixt their condition and yours, is excruciating.--Bruyere.

DCCCCXXXIX. There is some good in public envy, whereas in private there is none; for public envy is an ostracism, that eclipseth men when they grow too great; and therefore it is a bridle also to great ones to keep within bounds.Lord Bacon.


He that truly loves
Burns out the day in idle fantasies;
And when the lamb bleating, doth bid good night
Unto the closing day, then tears begin
To keep quick time unto the owl, whose voice
Shrieks like the bell-man in the lover's ears.

T. Middleton, DCCCCXLI. Indolence of body and mind, when we aim at no more, is very frequently enjoyed; but the very inquiry after happiness has something restless in it, which a man who lives in a series of temperate meals, friendly conversations, and easy slumbers, gives himself no trouble about. While men of refinement are talking of tranquillity, he possesses it. ---Steele.

DCCCCXLII. Fainwood. Sir Wilful Witwould comes to town, in order to equip himself for travel.

Mirabel. For travel! Why, the man that I mean, is above forty.

Fainwood. No matter for that; 'tis for the honour of England, that all Europe should know we have blockheads of all ages.

Mirabel. I wonder there is not an act of parliament to save the credit of the nation, and prohibit the exportation of fools.

Fainwovd. By no means, 'tis better as it is; 'tis better to trade with a little loss, than to be quite eaten up with being overstocked.-Congreve-Way of the World.

DCCCCXLIII. Men of great parts are often unfortunate in the management of public business, because they are apt to go out of the common road by the quickness of their imagination. This I once said to my Lord Bolingbroke, and desired he would observe, that the clerk in his of. fice used a sort of ivory knife with a blunt edge to divide a sheet of paper, which never failed to cut it even, only requiring a steady hand; whereas if they should make use of a sharp penknife, the sharpness would make it go often out of the crease, and disfigure the paper.-Swift.

Vain honour! Thou art but disguise,

A cheating voice, a juggling art;
No judge of virtue, whose pure eyes

Court her own image in the heart,
More pleased with her true figure there,
Than her false echo in the ear. Carew.

DCCCCXLV. The bounds of a man's knowledge are easily concealed, if he has but prudence; but all can readily see and admire a gilt library, a set of long nails, a silver standish, or a well combed whisker; who are incapable of distinguishing a dunce.-Goldsmith.

- Self-love never yet could look on Truth,
But with blear'd beams; slick Flattery and she
Are twin-born sisters, and so mix their eyes,
As if you sever one, the other dies.

Ben Jonson. DCCCCXLVII. Mere success is certainly one of the worst arguments in the world of a good cause, and the most improper to satisfy conscience: and yet we find, by experience, that

in the issue it is the most successful of all other arguments, and does in a very odd, but effectual way, satisfy the consciences of a great many men, by showing them their interest.--Tillotson.

DCCCCXLVIII. O me! what eyes hath love put in my head, Which have no correspondence with true sight? Or, if they have, where is my judgment fled, That censures falsely what they see aright? If that be fair whereon my false eyes dote, What means the world to say it is not so? If it be not, then love doth well denote Love's eye is not so true as all men's: no, How can it! O, how can Love's eye be true, That is so vex'd with watching and with tears? No marvel then though I mistake my view: The sun itself sees not, till heaven clears. O cunning Love! with tears thou keep'st me blind, Lest eyes well seeing thy foul faults should find.

Shakspeare. DCCCCXLIX. O the delights of poverty and a good appetite! We beggars are the very fondlings of Nature: the rich she treats like an arrant stepmother; they are pleased with nothing; cut a steak from what part you will, and it is insupportably tough; dress it up with pickles, and even pickles cannot procure them an appetite. But the whole creation is filled with good things for the beggar; Calvert's butt out-tastes champaign, and Sedgeley's homebrewed excels tokay. Joy, joy, my blood; though our estates lie no where, we have fortunes wherever we go. If an inundation sweeps away half the grounds in Cornwall, I am content; I have no land there: if the stocks sink, that gives me no uneasiness; I am no Jew-idventures of a Strolling Player.-Goldsmith.

DCCCCL. - Idleness in women is cured either by vanity or love, though in the sprightly it is the symptom of love. Bruyere.

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