established mode,
With pack-horse constancy we keep the road
Crooked or straight, through quags or thorny dells,
True to the jingling of our leader's bells.
_Tirocinium_. W. COWPER.

Assume a virtue, if you have it not.
That monster, custom, who all sense doth eat,
Of habits devil, is angel yet in this,
That to the use of actions fair and good
He likewise gives a frock or livery,
That aptly is put on.
_Hamlet, Act iii. Sc. 4_. SHAKESPEARE.

Custom calls me to 't;
What custom wills, in all things should we do 't,
The dust on antique time would lie unswept,
And mountainous error be too highly heapt
For truth to o'erpeer.
_Coriolanus, Act ii. Sc. 3_. SHAKESPEARE.

Such is the custom of Branksome Hall.
_The Lay of the Last Minstrel, Canto I_. SIR W. SCOTT.

The tyrant custom, most grave senators,
Hath made the flinty and steel couch of war
My thrice-driven bed of down.
_Othello, Act i. Sc. 3_. SHAKESPEARE.

But to my mind,--though I am native here,
And to the manner born,--it is a custom
More honored in the breach, than the observance.
_Hamlet, Act i. Sc. 4_. SHAKESPEARE.

DAY.

Day!
Faster and more fast,
O'er night's brim, day boils at last;
Boils, pure gold, o'er the cloud-cup's brim.
_Pippa Passes: Introduction_. R. BROWNING.

How troublesome is day!
It calls us from our sleep away;
It bids us from our pleasant dreams awake,
And sends us forth to keep or break
Our promises to pay.
How troublesome is day!
_Fly-By-Night_. T.L. PEACOCK.

Blest power of sunshine!--genial day,
What balm, what life is in thy ray!
To feel there is such real bliss,
That had the world no joy but this,
To sit in sunshine calm and sweet,--
It were a world too exquisite
For man to leave it for the gloom,
The deep, cold shadow, of the tomb.
_Lalla Rookh: The Fire Worshippers_. T. MOORE.

DEATH.

Death calls ye to the crowd of common men.
_Cupid and Death_. J. SHIRLEY.

A worm is in the bud of youth,
And at the root of age.
_Stanza subjoined to a Bill of Mortality_. W. COWPER.

The tall, the wise, the reverend head
Must lie as low as ours.
_A Funeral Thought, Bk. II. Hymn 63_. DR. I. WATTS.

Comes at the last, and with a little pin
Bores through his castle wall, and--farewell king!
_K. Richard II., Act iii. Sc. 2_. SHAKESPEARE.

And though mine arm should conquer twenty worlds,
There's