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PLODDING. What have continual plodders ever won, Save base authority from others' books. Shakspere. The unlettered christian who believes in gross, Plods on to heaven, and ne'er is at a loss.-Dryden. Some stupid, plodding, money-loving wight, Who wins their hearts by knowing black from white.
PLOT. My plots fall short, like darts, which rash hands throw With an ill aim, and have too far to go; Nor can I long discoveries prevent, I deal too much among the innocent.
Sir Robert Howard. He who envies now thy state, Who now is plotting how he may seduce Thee from obedience.
Milton. O think what anxious moments pass between The birth of plots, and their last fatal periods ! O'tis a dreadful interval of time, Made up of horror all, and big with death.
Nor wars are seen,
Unless upon the green
And wounds are never found,
Sir Walter Raleigh.
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 A local habitation and a name.
It is not poetry that makes men poor;
'Tis long disputed, whether poets claim
Francis, from Horace. Read, meditate, reflect, grow wise—in vain;
Try, every help, force fire from every spark; Yet shall you ne'er the poet's power attain, If heaven ne'er stamp'd you with the muses' mark.
Aaron Hill. And thou, sweet poetry, thou loveliest maid, Still first to fly where sensual joys invade! Unfit, in these degenerate times of shame, To catch the heart, or strike for honest fame. Dear charming nymph, neglected and decay'd, My shame in crowds, my solitary pride; Thou source of all my bliss, and all my woe, That found’st me poor at first, and keep'st me so; Thou guide, by which the nobler arts excel, Thou nurse of every virtue, farc thee well!
The world is full of poetry—the air
Never did poesy appear
So full of heaven to me, as when
To the lives of coarsest men!
Promptings their former life above,
James Russell Lowell.
O ye poetic ones!
Ye to yourselves suffice,
Without its flatteries,
Vex not thou the poet's mind
With thy shallow wit:
For thou can’st not fathom it.
Bright as light, and clear as wind. Tennyson.
The poet in a golden clime is born,
With golden stars above,
There is a pleasure in poetic pains,
Wordsworth. A drainless renown Of light is poesy: 'Tis the supreme of The might half slumbering on its own right arm.
John Keats. Oh. never had the poet's lute a hope, An aim so glorious as it now may have, In this our social state, where petty cares And mercenary interests only look Upon the present's littleness, and shrink From the bold future, and the stately past.
'Tis the poet's gift To melt these frozen waters.
Miss Landon. I see poets darting in splendour,
Bright birds from the tropic of mind. Why mock at each self-deem'd immortal? To-day he is lord of his kind. Miss Jewsbury.
Poet esteem thy noble part,
Still listen, still record;
And moral nature's lord. R. M. Milnes.
Polemics with religion play
As truant children cast
C. C. Colton.
Sir W. Davenant.
Chapman. Dull rogues affect the politician's part, 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 His face and habit; and, like water, seem Of the same colour that the vessel is That doth contain it, varying his form, With the chameleon, at each object's change.