Chapter 62
An undevout astronomer is mad.
Night ix. Line 1660.
Emblazed to seize the sight; who runs, may read.
LOVE OF FAME.
Satire i. Line 89.
Some, for renown, on sc.r.a.ps of learning dote, And think they grow immortal as they quote.
Satire i. Line 238.
None think the great unhappy, but the great.
Satire ii. Line 207.
Where nature's end of language is declined, And men talk only to conceal their mind.[14]
[Note 14: "Ils n'emploient les paroles que pour deguiser leurs pensees "--_Voltaire_.]
Satire vii. Line 97.
How commentators each dark pa.s.sage shun, And hold their farthing candle to the sun.[15]
[Note 15: Imitated by Crabbe in the Parish Register, Part I., Introduction, and taken originally from Burton's Anatomy of Melancholy, Part III. Sec. 2. Mem. 1. Subs 2. "But to enlarge or ill.u.s.trate this power or effects of love is to set a candle in the sun."]
_Lines Written with the Diamond Pencil of Lord Chesterfield_.
Accept a miracle, instead of wit, See two dull lines with Stanhope's pencil writ.
HENRY CAREY.
1663-1743.
_G.o.d save the King_.[16]
G.o.d save our gracious king, Long live our n.o.ble king, G.o.d
[Note 16: The authors.h.i.+p both of the words and music of "G.o.d save the King" has long been a matter of dispute, and is still unsettled, though the weight of the evidence is in favor of Carey's claim.]
_Chrononhotonthologos_. Act i. Sc. 3.
To thee, and gentle Rigdum Funnidos, Our gratulations flow in streams unbounded.
Act ii. Sc. 4.
Go call a coach, and let a coach be called, And let the man who calleth be the caller; And in his calling let him nothing call But Coach! Coach! Coach! O for a coach, ye G.o.ds!
ISAAC WATTS.
1674-1748.
DIVINE SONGS.
To G.o.d the Father, G.o.d the Son, And G.o.d the Spirit, three in one, Be honor, praise, and glory given, By all on earth, and all in heaven.
Hus.h.!.+ my dear, lie still and slumber Holy angels guard thy bed!
Heavenly blessings without number Gently falling on thy head.
Let dogs delight to bark and bite, For G.o.d hath made them so; Let bears and lions growl and fight.
For 'tis their nature too.
How doth the little busy bee Improve each s.h.i.+ning hour, And gather honey all the day, From every opening flower.
Hark! from the tombs a doleful sound.
'Tis the voice of the sluggard, I heard him complain, "You have waked me too soon, I must slumber again."
SIR SAMUEL TUKE.