Traffic my useful merchandise; gold and jewels, Lordly possessions are for my commodities Mortgag'd and sold; I sit chief moderator Between the cheek-parch'd summer, and th'
Of winter's tedious frost; nay, in myself I do contain another teeming spring: Surety of health, prosperity of life Belongs to autumn.
Those few pale Autumn flowers! How beautiful they are! Than all that went before, ex-Than all the Summer store, How lovelier far!
That loveliness ever in motion, which plays, Like the light upon Autumn's soft, shadowy days, Now here and now there, giving warmth as it flies,
Ford and Decker's Sun's Darling. From the lips to the cheeks, from the cheek to the
Wild is the music of autumnal winds Amongst the faded woods.
And greedy avarice by him did ride Upon a camell loaden all with gold;
Philips's Cider. Two iron coffers hang on either side,
But see the fading many-colour'd woods, Shade deep'ning over shade, the country round Imbrown; crowded umbrage, dusk, and dun, Of every hue, from wan declining green To sooty dark.
The pale descending year, yet pleasing still, A gentler mood inspires; for now the leaf Incessant rustles from the mournful grove; Oft startling such as, studious, walk below, And slowly circles thro' the waving air.
Fled is the blasted verdure of the fields; And, shrunk into their beds, the flowery race Their sunny robes resign. Even what remain'd Of stronger fruits falls from the naked tree; And woods, fields, gardens, orchards, all around The desolated prospect thrills the soul.
Thomson's Seasons. Again the year's decline, midst storms and floods The thundering chase, the yellow fading woods, Invite my song; that fain would boldly tell Of upland coverts, and the echoing dell, By turns resounding loud at eve and morn The swincherd's hallow or the shepherd's horn. Bloomfield's Farmer Boy.
Oh, Autumn! why so soon Depart the hues that make thy forest glad; Thy gentle wind and thy fair sunny noon, And leave thee wild and sad!
Ah! 't were a lot too blest
For ever in thy colour'd shades to stray; Amid the kisses of the soft southwest To rove and dream for ayc.
With precious metall full as they might hold And in his lap an heap of coin he told; For of his wicked pelf his god he made, And unto hell himself for money sold; Accursed usury was all his trade, And right and wrong ylike in equall balança waide,
His life was nigh unto death's dore yplaste; And thred-bare cote and cobbled shoes he ware, He scarce good morsell all his life did taste, But both from backe and belly still did spare, To fill his bags, and richesse to compare: Yet child ne kinsman living had he none, To leave them to; but thorough daily care He led a wretched life unto himselfe unknowne, To get, and nightly feare to lose his owne. Most wretched wight whom nothing might suffice, Whose greedy lust did lack in greatest store, Whose need had end, but no end covetise. Whose wealth was want, whose plenty made him poor,
Who had enough, yet wished evermore. Spenser's Fairy Queen.
And in his lap a masse of coyne he told And turned upside downe, to feede his eye And covetous desire with his huge treasury. Spenser's Fairy Queen. See!
The difference 'twixt the covetous and the prodigal. The covetous man never has money, And the prodigal will have none shortly!
Johnson's Staple of News.
When all sins are old in us, And go upon crutches, covetousness Does but then lie in her cradle.
Gross nurtur'd slaves, who force their wretched souls
To crouch to profit; nay, for trash and wealth, Doat on some crooked or misshapen form, Hugging wise nature's lame deformity, Begetting creatures ugly as themselves.
John Ford's Love Sacrifice.
When I was blind, my son, I did miscall My sordid vice of avarice, true thrift. But now forget that lesson, I prithee do, That cos'ning vice, although it seems to keep Our wealth, debars us from possessing it, And makes us more than poor.
In ever burning floods of liquid gold, And be his avarice the fiend that damns him. Murphy's Alzuma.
To cram the rich was prodigal expense, And who would take the poor from Providence? Like some lone chartreux stands the good old hall, Silence without and fasts within the wall; No rafter'd roofs with dance and tabor sound, No noon-tide bell invites the country round: Tenants with sighs the smokeless towers survey, And turn th' unwilling steeds another way; Benighted wanderers, the forest o'er, Curs'd the sav'd candle, and unopening door; While the gaunt mastiff growling at the gate, Affrights the beggar whom he longs to eat.
'Tis strange the miser should his cares employ To gain those riches he can ne'er enjoy; Is it less strange the prodigal should waste His wealth to purchase what he ne'er can taste? Pope's Moral Essays.
Riches, like insects, when conceal'd they lie, Wait but for wings, and in their season fly; Who sees pale Mammon pine amidst his store Sees but a backward steward for the poor; This year a reservoir, to keep and spare; The next a fountain, spouting through his heir, In lavish streams to quench a country's thirst, And men and dogs shall drink him till they burst. Pope's Moral Essays. Wealth in the gross is death, but life diffus'd; As poison heals, in just proportions us'd; In heaps, like ambergris, a sink it lies, And well dispers'd, is incense to the skies. Pope's Moral Essays "I give and I devise," (Old Euclio said, And sigh'd,) "my lands and tenements to Ned." Your money, sir? -66 My money, sir, what, all? Why, if I must" (then wept), "I give it Paul." The manor, sir?-"The manor! hold," he cried, "Not that I cannot part with that," and died. Pope's Moral Essays. The lust of gold succeeds the lust of conquest: The lust of gold, unfeeling and remorseless! The last corruption of degenerate man.
Dr. Johnson's Irene. Some, o'er-enamour'd of their bags, run mad, Groan under gold, yet weep for want of bread. Young's Night Thoughts. O cursed love of gold; when for thy sake The fool throws up his interest in both worlds, First starv'd in this, then damn'd in that to come. Blair's Grave.
AWKWARDNESS - BANISHMENT.
Who, lord of millions, trembles for his store, And fears to give a farthing to the poor; Proclaims that penury will be his fate, And, scowling, looks on charity with hate. Dr. Wolcot's Peter Pindar.
The love of gold, that meanest rage, And latest folly of man's sinking age, Which, rarely venturing in the van of life, While nobler passions wage their heated strife, Comes skulking last with selfishness and fear, And dies collecting lumber in the rear!
Moore. The credulous hope of mutual minds is o'er, The copious use of claret is forbid too, So for a good old-gentlemanly vice, I think I must take up with avarice.
Byron's Don Juan. Oh gold!-why call we misers miserable? Theirs is the pleasure that can never pall; Theirs is the best bower-anchor, the chain cable, Which holds fast other pleasures great and small; Ye who but see the saving man at table, And scorn his temperate board, as none at all, And wonder how the wealthy can be sparing, Know not what visions spring from each cheese. paring.
Why call the miser miserable? As I said before, the frugal life is his, Which in a saint or cynic ever was
The theme of praise: a hermit would not miss. Canonization for the self-same cause, And wherefore blame gaunt wealth's austerities? Because, you'll say, naught calls for such a trial; Then there's more merit in his self-denial. Byron's Don Juan. But whether all, or each, or none of these, May be the hoarder's principle of action, The fool will call such mania a disease: - What is his own? Go look at each transaction, Wars, revels, loves -do these bring men more ease Than the mere plodding through each vulgar fraction;
Or do they benefit mankind? Lean miser! Let spendthrifts' heirs inquire of yours, who's
Byron's Don Juan. Why Mammon sits before a million hearths Where God is bolted out from every house. Bailley's Festus.
The churl who holds it heresy to think, Who loves no music but the dollar's clink, Who laughs to scorn the wisdom of the schools, And deems the first of poets first of fools,
Go say, I sent thee forth to purchase honour; And not the king exiled thee. Or suppose Devouring pestilence hangs in our air, And thou art flying to a fresher clime. Look what thy soul holds dear, imagine it To lie that way thou goest, not whence thoa Shaks. Richard Il Flies may do this, when I from this must fly; They are free men, but I am banished. Shaks. Romeo and Julut. I've stoopt my neck under your injuries, And sigh'd my English breath in foreign clouas, Eating the bitter bread of banishment; While you have fed upon my signories;
Dispark'd my parks, and fell'd my forest woods; From mine own windows torn my household-coat, Raz'd out my impress; leaving me no sign, Save men's opinions, and my living blood, To show the world I am a gentleman.
O friar, the damned use that word in hell; Howlings attend it: how hast thou the heart, Being a divine, a ghostly confessor, A sin absolver, and my friend profest, To mangle me with that word—banishment? Shaks. Romeo and Juliet.
The rest, that scape his sword and death eschew Fly like a flocke of doves before a falcon's view. Spenser's Fairy Queen.
All sodainly enflam'd with furious fit, Like a fell lionesse, at him she flew,
Shaks. Richard II. And on his head-piece him so fiercely smit, That to the ground him quite she overthrew, Dismay'd so with the stroke that he no colours Spenser's Fairy Queen, The eager armies meet to try their cause, Our English lords in four battalias Bring on their forces, but so furious grows In little time the fight, so near the blows, That soon no order we perceive at all, For, like one body, closely move they all. May's Edward III.
Banish your dotage: banish usury,
That makes the senate ugly.
I'll give thrice so much land, To any well deserving friend;
But in the way of bargain, mark me, I'll cavil on the ninth part of a hair.
The age of bargaining, said Burke, Has come to-day the turban'd Turk Is England's friend and fast ally.
Lord Stafford mines for coal and salt, The Duke of Norfolk deals in malt, The Douglas in red herrings; And noble name and cultur'd land, Palace, and park, and vassal band, Are powerless to the notes of hand Of Rothschild or the Barings.
If we are mark'd to die, we are enough To do our country loss; and if to live, The fewer men the greater share of honour.
Shaks. Henry V. A thousand hearts are great within my bosom; Halleck's Alnwich Castle. Advance our standards, set upon our foes;
Therewith they gan, both furious and fell, To thunder blowes, and fiercely to assaile Each other, bent his enemy to quell,
Our ancient word of courage, fair saint George, Inspire us with the spleen of fiery dragons! Upon them! Victory sits on our helms.
Shaks. Richard III. The cannons have their bowels full of wrath; And ready mounted are they to spit forth
That with their force they perst both plate and Their iron indignation 'gainst your walls.
And made wide furrows in their fleshes fraile, That it would pity any living eie. Large floods of blood adowne their sides did raile, But floods of blood could not them satisfie: Both hongred after death; both chose to win or die. Spenser's Fairy Queen. Then to the rest his wrathful hand he bends, Of whom he makes such havocke and such hew, That swarms of damned soules to hell he sends;
Methought, he bore him in the thickest troop, As doth a lion in a herd of neat: Or as a bear, encompass'd round with dogs; Who having pinch'd a few, and made them cry, The rest stand all aloof, and bark at him.
Shaks. Henry VI. And now their mightiest quell'd, the battle swerv'd, With many an inroad gor'd; deformed rout Enter'd and foul disorder; all the ground With shiver'd armour strown, and on a heap Chariot and charioteer lay overturn'd, And fiery foaming steeds.
Milton's Paradise Lost. "Twixt host and host but narrow space was left, A dreadful interval, and front to front Presented stood in terrible array
Of hideous length; before the cloudy van On the rough edge of battle ere it join'd, Satan, with vast and haughty strides advanc'd, Came tow'ring, arm'd in adamant and gold. Milton's Paradise Lost. The shout
Of battle now began, and rushing sound Of onset ended soon each milder thought.
Milton's Paradise Lost.
Now night her course began, and over heaven Inducing darkness, grateful truce, impos'd Her silence on the odious din of war: Under her cloudy covert hath retir'd, Victor and vanquish'd.
Hark-the death-denouncing trumpet sounds The fatal charge, and shouts proclaim the onset― Destruction rushes dreadful to the field, And bathes itself in blood: havoc let loose Now undistinguish'd, rages all around; While ruin, seated on her dreary throne, Sees the plain strewed with subjects truly hers, Breathless and cold. Havard's Scanderbeg.
Even like an arrow on the wind he rode His winged courser, and with noble daring Swept with his chivalrous escort past our front, Even at the stormy edge of chafing battle.
Milton's Paradise Lost. Behold in awful march and dread array,
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