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's dark array,-- Days of absence, I am weary; She I love is far away. _Days of Absence_, J.J. ROUSSEAU. Love reckons hours for months, and days for years; And every little absence is an age. _Amphictrion_. J. DRYDEN. What! keep a week away? Seven days and nights? Eightscore eight hours? And lovers' absent hours More tedious than the dial eightscore times? O, weary reckoning! _Othello. Act_ iii. _Sc_. 4. SHAKESPEARE. Long did his wife, Suckling her babe, her only one, look out The way he went at parting,--but he came not! _Italy_. S. ROGERS. With what a deep devotedness of woe I wept thy absence--o'er and o'er again Thinking of thee, still thee, till thought grew pain, And memory, like a drop that, night and day Falls cold and ceaseless, wore my heart away! _Lalla Rookh: Veiled Prophet of Khorassan_. T. MOORE. Condemned whole years in absence to deplore, And image charms he must behold no more. _Eloise to Abelard_. A. POPE. ACTION. The flighty purpose never is o'ertook, Unless the deed go with it. _Macbeth, Act_. iv. _Sc_. 1. SHAKESPEARE. If our virtues Did not go forth of us, 't were all alike As if we had them not. Spirits are not finely touched, But to fine issues; nor Nature never lends The smallest scruple of her excellence. But, like a thrifty goddess, she determines Herself the glory of a creditor-- Both thanks and use. _Measure for Measure, Act_ i. _Sc_. 1. SHAKESPEARE. We must not stint Our necessary actions, in the fear To cope malicious censurers. _King Henry VIII., Act_ i. _Sc_. 2. SHAKESPEARE. That light we see is burning in my hall. How far that little candle throws his beams! So shines a good deed in a naughty world. _Merchant of Venice, Act_ v. _Sc_. 1. SHAKESPEARE. Our acts our angels are, or good or ill. Our fatal shadows that walk by us still. _An Honest Man's Fortune_. J. FLETCHER. ADMIRATION. She is pretty to walk with, And witty to talk with, And pleasant, too, to think on. _Brennoralt, Act_ ii. SIR J. SUCKLING. But from the hoop's bewitching round, Her very shoe has power to wound. _Fables: The Spider and the Bee_. E. MOORE. That eagle's fate and mine are one. Which, on the shaft that made him die, Espied a feather of his own, Wherewith he wont to soar so high. _To a Lady singing a Son
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