I pull in resolution, and begin
To doubt the equivocation of the fiend
That lies like truth: "Fear not, till Birnam wood
Do come to Dunsinane."
_Macbeth, Act v. Sc. 5_. SHAKESPEARE.

In life's small things be resolute and great
To keep thy muscle trained: know'st thou when Fate
Thy measure takes, or when she'll say to thee,
"I find thee worthy; do this deed for me"?
_Epigram_. J.R. LOWELL.

REST.

Take thou of me, sweet pillowes, sweetest bed;
A chamber deafe of noise, and blind of light,
A rosie garland, and a weary hed.
_Astrophel and Stella_. SIR PH. SIDNEY.

And to tired limbs and over-busy thoughts,
Inviting sleep and soft forgetfulness.
_The Excursion, Bk. IV_. W. WORDSWORTH.

The wind breathed soft as lover's sigh,
And, oft renewed, seemed oft to die,
With breathless pause between,
O who, with speech of war and woes,
Would wish to break the soft repose
Of such enchanting scene!
_Lord of the Isles, Canto IV_. SIR W. SCOTT.

Our foster-nurse of Nature is repose,
The which he lacks; that to provoke in him,
Are many simples operative, whose power
Will close the eye of anguish.
_King Lear, Act iv. Sc. 4_. SHAKESPEARE.

These should be hours for necessities,
Not for delights; times to repair our nature
With comforting repose, and not for us
To waste these times.
_King Henry VIII., Act v. Sc. 1_. SHAKESPEARE.

Who pants for glory finds but short repose;
A breath revives him, or a breath o'erthrows.
_Epistles of Horace, Ep. I. Bk. I_. J. DRYDEN.

Where peace
And rest can never dwell, hope never comes
That comes to all.
_Paradise Lost, Bk. I_. MILTON.

Absence of occupation is not rest,
A mind quite vacant is a mind distressed.
_Retirement_. W. COWPER.

RETRIBUTION.

The thorns which I have reaped are of the tree
I planted--they have torn me, and I bleed;
I should have known what fruit would spring from such a seed.
_Childe Harold, Canto IV_. LORD BYRON.

We but teach
Bloody instructions, which, being taught, return
To plague the inventor. This even-handed justice
Commends the ingredients of our poisoned chalice
To our own lips.
_Macbeth, Act i. Sc. 7_. SHAKESPEARE.
So the struck eagle, stretched upon the plain,
No more through rolling clouds to soar again,
Viewed his own feather on the fatal dart,
And winged the shaft that quiv