ttle here below,
Nor wants that little long.
1107
GOLDSMITH: _The Hermit,_ Ch. viii., St. 8.

=Locks.=

Thou canst not say I did it; never shake
Thy gory locks at me.
1108
SHAKS.: _Macbeth,_ Act iii., Sc. 4.

John Anderson my jo, John,
When we were first acquent,
Your locks were like the raven,
Your bonny brow was brent.
1109
BURNS: _John Anderson._

=Logic.=

He was in logic a great critic,
Profoundly skill'd in analytic;
He could distinguish and divide
A hair 'twixt south and south-west side.
1110
BUTLER: _Hudibras,_ Pt. i., Canto i., Line 65.

=London.=

London! the needy villain's general home,
The common-sewer of Paris and of Rome!
With eager thirst, by folly or by fate,
Sucks in the dregs of each corrupted state.
1111
DR. JOHNSON: _London,_ Line 83.

=Longings.=

I have
Immortal longings in me.
1112
SHAKS.: _Ant. and Cleo.,_ Act v., Sc. 2.

=Looks.=

My only books
Were woman's looks,--
And folly 's all they've taught me.
1113
MOORE: _The Time I've Lost in Wooing._

Where village statesmen talk'd with looks profound,
And news much older than their ale went round.
1114
GOLDSMITH: _Des. Village,_ Line 223.

=Lord.=

Lord of himself,--that heritage of woe!
1115
BYRON: _Lara,_ Canto i., St. 2.

Lord of himself, though not of lands;
And having nothing, yet hath all.
1116
WOTTON: _Character of a Happy Life._

=Loss.=

That loss is common would not make
My own less bitter--rather more;
Too common! Never morning wore
To evening but some heart did break.
1117
TENNYSON: _In Memoriam,_ Pt. vi., St. 2.

=Love.=

O, how this spring of love resembleth
The uncertain glory of an April day;
Which now shows all the beauty of the sun,
And by and by a cloud takes all away.
1118
SHAKS.: _Two Gent. of V.,_ Act i., Sc. 3.

Love is a spirit all compact of fire;
Not gross to sink, but light, and will aspire.
1119
SHAKS.: _Venus and A.,_ Line 149.

Such is the power of that sweet passion,
That it all sordid baseness doth expel,
And the refined mind doth newly fashion
Unto a fairer form, which now doth dwell
In his high thought, that would itself excel;
Which he, beholding still with constant sight,
Admires the mirror of so heavenly light.
1120
SPENSER: _Hymn in Honor of Love._

How could I tell I should love thee to-day,
Whom that day I held not dear?
How could I know I should love thee away
When I did not love thee