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Sweet plant of Paradise ! Thy seeds are sown, In here and there, a mind of heavenly mould;

It rises slow, and blooms—but ne'er was known To ripen here—the climate is too cold.

When man has shut the door unkind On Pity, earth's divinest guest,

The wanderer never fails to find A sweet abode in Woman's breast.

A Mas that hath no virtue in himself, ever envieth virtue in others; for men's minds will either feed upon their own good, or upon other's evil; and who wanteth the one will prey upon the other; and whoso is out of hope to attain another's virtue will seek to come at even hand by depressing another's fortune. Bacon.

Who hath not proved—how feebly words essay To fix one spark of beauty's heavenly ray ? Who doth not feel until his failing sight Faints into dimness from its own delight— His changing cheek—his sinking heart confess, The might, the majesty of loveliness f

Byron.