What renders beating out of brains, And murder, godliness?- great gains.

Butler's Hudibras.

What makes a knave a child of God, And one of us?—a livelihood.

Butler's Hudibras.

Can riches keep the mortal wretch from death?
Or can new treasures purchase a new breath?
Or does heaven send its love and mercy more
To mammon's pamper'd sons than to the poor?
If not, why should the fool take so much state,
Exalt himself and others under-rate ?
'Tis senseless ignorance, that soothes his pride,
And make him laugh at all the world beside.
Tom Brown.

Riches, like insects, while conceal'd they lie,
Wait but for wings, and in their seasons fly;
To whom can riches give repute and trust,
Content or pleasure, but the good and just?
Judges and senates have been bought for gold,
Esteem and love are never to be sold.

Pope.

Wealth in the gross is death, but life diffus'd;
As poison heals in just proportions us'd;
In heaps, like ambergris, a stink it lies,
But well dispers'd is incense to the skies.

Pope. see

Can wealth give happiness? look round, and
What gay distress! what splendid misery!
Whatever fortune lavishly can pour,
The mind annihilates, and calls for more.
Young's Love of Fame.
The needy traveller, serene and gay,
Walks the wide heath, and sings his toil away.
Does envy seize thee? crush the upbraiding joy,
Increase his riches, and his peace destroy.

Dr. Johnson's Vanity of Human Wishes.

Wealth is substantial good the fates allot:
We know we have it, or we have it not.
But all those graces, which men highly rate,
Their minds themselves imagine and create.

Crabbe.

He that hath more than enough is a thief of the rights of his brother.

Tupper's Proverbial Philosophy. Wealth often killeth, where want but hindreth the budding. Tupper's Proverbial Philosophy. Wealth hath never given happiness, but often hasten'd misery.

Tupper's Proverbial Philosophy.

If all were rich, gold would be penniless.

Bailey's Festus.

See, but glance briefly, sorrow-worn and pale,
Those sunken cheeks beneath the widow's veil;
Alone she wanders where with him she trod,
No arm to stay her, but she leans on God.

WIFE.

O. W. Holmes.

You are my true and honourable wife; As dear to me, as are the ruddy drops That visit my sad heart.

Within the bond of marriage, tell me, Brutus,
Is it excepted, I should know no secrets
That appertain to you? Am I yourself,
But, as it were, on sort, or limitation;

To keep with you at meals, comfort your bed, And talk to you sometimes? dwell I but in the suburbs

Of your good pleasure? If it be no more,
Portia is Brutus' harlot, not his wife.

Shaks. Julius Cæsar.

Such duty as the subject owes the prince,
Even such a woman oweth to her husband:
And, when she's froward, peevish, sullen, sour,
And not obedient to his honest will,
What is she but a foul contending rebel,
And graceless traitor to her loving lord?
Shaks. Taming the Shrew.
I am asham'd, that women are so simple
To offer war where they should kneel for peace;
Or seek for rule, supremacy, and sway,
When they are bound to serve, love, and obey.
Shaks. Taming the Shrew.
Fye! fye! unknit that threat'ning unkind brow;
And dart not scornful glances from those eyes,
To wound thy lord, thy king, thy governor :
It blots thy beauty, as frosts bite the meads;
Confounds thy fame, as whirlwinds shake fair
buds;

And in no sense is meet, or amiable.

Shaks. Taming the Shrew. Alas! he has banish'd me his bed already; His love, too long ago: I am old, my lords, And all the fellowship I hold now with him Is only my obedience. What can happen To me, above this wretchedness?

Shaks. Henry VIII.

Happy in this, she is not yet so old
But she may learn; happier than this,
She is not bred so dull but she can learn;
Happiest of all, is, that her gentle spirit
Commits itself to yours to be directed,
As from her lord, her governor, her king.

Shaks. Merchant of Venice.

To you I am bound for life and education;
My life and education, both do learn me
How to respect you; you are the lord of duty,
I am hitherto your daughter: But here's my hus-
band;

And so much duty as my mother show'd
To you, preferring you before her father,
So much I challenge that I may profess
Due to the Moor, my lord.

Shaks. Othello.

You may pace easy, but not such a wife.
Shaks. Antony and Cleopatra

I will be master of what is mine own:
She is my goods, my chattels; she is my house,
My household stuff, my field, my barn,
My horse, my ox, my ass, my any thing;
And here she stands, touch her whoever dare;
I'll bring mine action on the proudest he
That stops my way in Padua.

Shaks. Taming the Shrew
She is mine own;

And I as rich in having such a jewel,
As twenty seas, if all their sand were pearl,
The water nectar, and the rocks pure gold.
Shaks. Two Gentlemen of Verona.
Should all despair,

That have revolted wives, the tenth of mankind
Would hang themselves.

Shaks. Winter's Tale

Give me, next good, an understanding wife,
By nature wise, not learned by much art;
Some knowledge on her side will all my life
More scope of conversation then impart;
Besides her inborn virtue fortify;
They are most good who best know why.
Sir Thomas Overbury.

What bliss for her who lives her little day, In blest obedience, like to those divine, Who to her lov'd, her earthly lord can say, "God is thy law, most just, and thou art mine." Mrs. Maria Brooks. Thou wast my nurse in sickness, and my comforter in health;

So gentle and so constant, when our love was all our wealth:

All day, like some sweet bird, content to sing
In its small cage, she moveth to and fro-
And ever and anon will upward spring
To her sweet lips, fresh from the fount below,
The murmur'd melody of pleasant thought,
Light household duties, evermore inwrought
With pleasant fancies of one trusting heart,
That lives but in her smile, and ever turns
To be refresh'd where one pure altar burns;
Shut out from hence the mockery of life,
Thus liveth she content, the meek, fond, trusting
wife.
Mrs. E. Oakes Smith.
Full well I know the generous soul
Which warms thee into life,
Each spring which can its powers control
Familiar to thy wife-

For dream'st thou she had stoop'd to bind
Her fate unto a common mind?
The eagle-like ambition, nurs'd
From childhood in her heart, had first
Consum'd, with its Promethean flame,
The shrine, then sank her so to shame.

Sometimes it comes like a low sweet song,
And all things grow calm, as the sound floats along,
And the forest is lull'd by the dreamy strain,
And slumber sinks down on the wandering main,
And its crystal arms are folded in rest,
And the tall ship sleeps on its heaving breast.
Miss Landon.
And it beckons the leaves with its viewless hand,
And they leap from their branches at its command,
And follow its footsteps with wheeling feet,
Like fairies that dance in the moonlight sweet.
Miss Landon.
And pauses to gather its fearful breath,
And lifts up its voice like the angel of death-
And the billows leap up when the summons they
hear,

And the ship flies away, as if winged with fear,
And the uncouth creatures that dwell in the deep
Start up at the sound from their floating sleep,
And career through the water, like clouds through
the night,

To share in the tumult their joy and delight,
And when the moon rises, the ship is no more,
Its joys and its sorrows are vanish'd and o'er,
And the fierce storm that slew it has faded away,
Like the dark dream that flies from the light of
the day.
Miss Landon.

I love to hear the high winds pipe aloud,
When 'gainst the leafy nations up in arms;
Now screaming in their rage, now shouting,
proud-

Then moaning, as in pain at war's alarms:
Then softly sobbing to unquiet rest,
Then wildly, harshly, breaking forth again
As if in scorn at having been represt,
With marching sweep careering o'er the plain.

Anon

The mountain wind! most spiritual of all
The wide earth knows-when, in the sultry
time

He stoops him from his vast cerulean hall,
He seems the breath of a celestial clime,
As if from heaven's wide-open gates did flow
Health and refreshment on the world below.
Bryant's Poems.

The cool wind,

That stirs the stream in play, shall come to thee, Like one that loves thee, nor will let thee pass Ungreeted, and shall give its light embrace.

Bryant's Poems.

Oh! I love the winds when they spurn control,

For they suit my own bond-hating soul;
I like to hear them sweeping past,
Like the eagle's pinions, free and fast.

Thou wind!

Which art the unseen similitude of God
The Spirit; His most meet and mightiest sign!
Bailey's Festus.
Wind! thou art lovelike, every where; o'er earth,
O'er ocean triumphing, and aye with clouds,
That like the ghost of ocean's billows roll,
Decking or darkening Heaven.

Bailey's Festus.

These are God's blessed ministers, methinks, These winds that whisper to the heart subdued So winningly, that still the sad ear drinks

Their messages of mercy and the mood Grows calm and unresentful - while the blight Passes from off the spirit, that but late, Gloom'd with the gloomy progress of the night, And spake defiance to the will of fate.

W. G. Simms.

I hear the winds of evening moan
Through ivied towers decay'd and old,
Waving their tresses o'er the stone

In desolation doubly cold;

Yet when o'er thousand leagues they blow,
Beyond this twilight's dusky line,
Their wings may stoop to waken low
The music of the trysting pine,
And, sighing with them in the tree,
My heart would whisper love to thee.

J. Bayard Taylor's Poems.

How softly comes the summer wind
At evening o'er the hill-
For ever murmuring of thee,
When busy crowds are still.

O madness, to think use of strongest wines
And strongest drinks our chief support of health,
When God with these forbidden made choice to

rear

His mighty champion, strong above compare,
Whose drink was only from the liquid brook.
Milton's Samson Agonistes.
Wine fills the veins, and healths are understood
To give our friends a title to our blood:
Who, naming me doth warm his courage so,
Shows for my sake what his bold hand would do.
Waller.

"Tis pity wine, which nature meant
To man in kindness to present,
And give him kindly to caress
And cherish his frail happiness,
Of equal virtue to renew
His weary mind and body too,
Should (like the cider tree in Eden,
Which only grew to be forbidden)
No sooner came to be enjoy'd,

But th' owner's fatally destroy'd.

Butler.

We come! we come! and ye feel our might,
As we 're hastening on in our boundless flight,
And over the mountains, and over the deep,
Our broad, invisible pinions sweep,
Like the spirit of Liberty, wild and free!
And ye look on our works and own 't is we;
Ye call us the Winds; but can ye tell
Whither we go, or where we dwell?

Miss Gould's Poems.

C. Johnson's Wife's Reick

Let all my soldiers quaff
That gen'rous juice, by juggling priests deny'd,
Lest it should help to whet our understandings,
And ripen reason, to see through their crafts.
Darcy's Love and Ambition.

Ah! sly deceiver; branded o'er and o'er,
Yet still believ'd! exulting o'er the wreck
Of sober vows.

Armstrong's Art of Preserving Health.