A maid thitherward did run

No bird but did her shrill notes sweetly sing; No song but did contain a lovely dit.

SPENSER.

The trees did bud, and early blossom bore,
And all the quire of birds did sweetly sing,
And told that garden's pleasures in their carol-
ling.

SPENSER. Leaves of flowers

That freshly budded, and new blossoms did bear, In which a thousand birds had built their bowers. SPENSER.

The birds Frame to thy song their cheerful cheruping, Or hold their peace for shame of thy sweet lays. SPENSER.

The cheerful birds of sundry kind
Do chant sweet music to delight his mind.
SPENSER.

He percheth on some branch thereby,
To weather him, and his moist wings to dry.
SPENSER.

She, more sweet than any bird on bough,

Would oftentimes among them bear a part, And strive to pass, as she could well enow, Their native music by her skilful art. SPENSER.

Hark! how the cheerful birds do chant their

lays,

And carol of Love's praise.

As an eagle seeing prey appear

His airy plumes doth rouse full rudely dight, So shaked he, that horror was to hear.

SPENSER. The kingly bird that bears Jove's thunderclap One day did scorn the simple scarabee, Proud of his highest service, and good hap, That made all other fowls his thralls to be.

SPENSER.

Lifted aloft, he 'gan to mount up higher,
And, like fresh eagle, made his hardy flight
Thro' all that great wide waste, yet wanting light.
SPENSER.

An haggard hawk, presuming to contend
With hardy fowl above his able might,
His weary pounces all in vain doth spend,
To truss the prey too heavy for his flight.
SPENSER.

The nightingale is sovereign of song,
Before him sits the titmouse silent by,
And I, unfit to thrust in skilful throng,
Should Colin make judge of my foolerie.
SPENSER.
The ill-faced owl, death's dreadful messenger,
The hoarse night-raven, trump of doleful dre:e,
The leather-winged bat, day's enemy,
The rueful strick, still waiting on the bier.

THOMSON.

Up springs the lark, shrill-voiced and loud. THOMSON.

A fresher gale

Sweeping with shadowy gust the field of corn, While the quail clamours for his running mate. THOMSON. The redbreast, sacred to the household gods, Pays to trusted man his annual visit.

THOMSON.

The rook, who high amid the boughs In early spring his airy city builds, And ceaseless caws.

THOMSON.

The swallow sweeps

The slimy pool to build his hanging house. THOMSON.

The stately-sailing swan Gives out his snowy plumage to the gale; And, arching proud his neck, with oary feet Bears forward fierce, and guards his osier isle, Protective of his young.

THOMSON.

MILTON.

bliss
With length of days, and every day like this.
DRYDEN.
Vain, very vain, my weary search to find
That bliss which only centres in the mind.
GOLDSMITH.

Bliss, as thou hast part, to me is bliss;
Tedious, unshared with thee, and odious soon.
MILTON.

Condition, circumstance, is not the thing:
Bliss is the same in subject or in king;
In who obtain defence, or who defend,
In him who is, or him who finds, a friend.
POPE.

Some place the bliss in action, some in ease;
Those call it pleasure, and contentment these.

A thousand blushing apparitions

SHAKSPEARE.

BOOKS.

Its no' in books, its no' in lear,
To make us truly blest,
If happiness has not her seat
And centre in the breast.

BURNS: Epistle to Davie.
Old wood to burn! old wine to drink!
Old friends to trust! old books to read!
ALONZO OF Aragon.

'Tis in books the chief
Of all perfections to be plain and brief.

BUTLER.

Nor write, and so they don't affect the muse; Were never caught in epigram or witticism; Have no romances, sermons, plays, reviews.

BYRON.

'Twere well with most, if books, that could engage

Their childhood, pleased them at a riper age,
The man, approving what had charm'd the boy,
Would die at last in comfort, peace, and joy;
And not with curses on his art who stole
The gem of truth from his unguarded soul.
COWPER.

Books are not seldom talismans and spells.
COWPER.