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The child is father of the man.
The tear down childhood's cheek that flows
And still I looked upon their loveliness,
Ah! first-born of thy mother,
When life and hope were new,
Thy sister, father too;
My bird when prison-bound,
From forth the glimmering thatch;
And now I lift the latch;
My little children bound,
Sir E. Bridyes.
And I saw a lovely child who knelt
M. A. Browne. Thou art looking now at the birds, Genie,
But oh, do not wish their wing! That would tempt the fowler, Genie,
Stay thou on earth and sing;
Be not soon thence beguil'd;
If you oblige me suddenly to choose,
Dryden. Wisdom, of what herself approves, makes choice, Nor is led captive by the common voice.
Let his years be few or many, high or humble be
his lot, Him my inmost heart has chosen, and again it chooses not.
From the Hindoo of Valmiki.
Thus in sea of folly tost
LET your reason with your choler question
Must I give way and room to your rash choler?
WHEN once thy foot enters the church, be bare;
Dryden. Church ladders are not always mounted best By learned clerks and latinists professed. Cowper.
What is a church?–Our honest sexton tells, ’T is a tall building with a spire and bells.
What is a church?—Let truth and reason speak,
What stern ungentle hands Have lopped, and hewed, and made thy body bare Of her two branches, those sweet ornaments, Whose circling shadows kings have sought to sleep in.
Shakspere. Thus in a circle runs the peasant's pain, And the year rolls within itself again. Dryden. Trade, which, like blood, should circularly flow, Stopped in their channels, found its freedom lost.
Dryden. Unseen he glided through the joyous crowd, With darkness circled, and an ambient cloud.—Pope.
While these fond arms, thus circling you, may prove More heavy chains than those of hopeless love.
Prior. From whence the innumerable race of things, By circular successive order springs. Roscommon. If their loves' motions ours must imitate, Our knowledge, like our blood, must circulate.
Denham. Then a deeper still, In circle following circle, gathers round To close the face of things.
Money, the life-blood of the nation,
Corrupts and stagnates in the veins, Unless a proper circulation
Its motion and its heat maintains.
Planets circle round the sun,
This fierce abridgment
To worthiest things,
Donne. Faint is the flower that droops
Beneath a cloudier clime;
-True, the people are the city. Shakspere.
Shakspere. When he speaks not like a citizen, You find him like a soldier.
The fawning citizen, whose love's bought dearest, Deceives his brother when the sun shines clearest, Gets, borrows, breaks, lets in and stops out light, And lives a knave, to leave his son a knight.
William Browne. This world’s a city, full of straying streets, And death 's the market-place where each one meets.
Old Play, 1634.