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If wrongfully, Let God revenge; for I may never lift An angry arm against his ministers. Shakspere. Can'st thou not minister to a mind diseased; Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow; Kaze out the written troubles of the brain?
Shakspere. This temple to frequent With ministeries due and solemn rites. Milton.
MINSTER. The old grey minsters! how they rear their heads Amid the green vales of our fertile land, Telling of bygone years and things that were;Those glorious piles, that seem to mock at time, To God's most holy service dedicate, Enriched with sculptures rare, and effigies, That with clasped hands seem ever mutely prayingDumb intercessors for us sinful men; And with their solemn bells, that send afar The tidings of great joy, and bid us leave The turmoil and the strife of busy life, And worship, as we should, the living God.
Old Play. Here, as to shame the temples deck'd By skill of earthly architect, Nature herself, it seem'd, would raise A minster to her Maker's praise! Not for a meaner use ascend Her columns, or her arches bend; Nor for a theme less solemn tells That mighty surge that ebbs and swells, And still, between each awful pause, From the bigh vault an answer draws, That Nature's voice might seem to say “Well hast thou done, frail child of clay! Thy humble powers that stately shrine Tašk'd high and hard--but witness mine!" Scott.
Their merry music that resounds from far,
The way was long, the wind was cold,
The time that tells our life, wbich though it run
You are death's auditors, that both decide And sum whate'er that life inspir'd endures,
Past a beginning; and through you we bide The doom of fate, whose unrecall’d decree
You date, bring, execute; making what's new,
Ill; and good, old; for as we die in you, You die in time, time in eternity.
Lord Herbert, to his Watch.
The speed of gods Time counts not, though with swiftest minutes winged.
MIRROR. MISANTHROPY. MISCHIEF.
That Power which gave me eyes the world to view,
To view myself infused an inward light,
Alas, poor dean! his only scope
Misanthropy, with visage sour, that sat
And looked askance upon the ways of men,
As might a wounded bear from out his den; Longing to eat those he was looking at.
O mischief! thou art swift
And yet permits it, is an accessary. Freeman. Mischief that may be help’d, is hard to knoir; And danger going on still multiplies: Where harm hath many wings, care arms too late.
MISER. But the base miser starves amidst his store, Broods o'er his gold, and griping still at more, Sits sadly pining, and believes he's poor. Dryden.
'Tis strange the miser should his care employ To gain those riches he can ne'er enjoy.
The miser lives alone, abhorred by all
Their crimes on gold shall misers lay,
Where hangs my harp upon the cypress tree, Salute it in my name, and say, · I am bow'd down by years and misery. Tasso.
I pray thee, deal with men in misery,
To tell thy mis’ries will no comfort breed;
Havard. Oh! mortals, short of sight, who think the past O'er-blown misfortune still shall prove the last; Alas! misfortunes travel in a train, And oft in life form one perpetual chain; Fear buries fear, and ills on ills. attend, Till life and sorrow meet one common end.
To declare the coming vision.-E. B. Browning.
Dr. Wm. Beattie.