ines, whose rude throats
The immortal Jove's dread clamors counterfeit,
Farewell! Othello's occupation's gone!
_Othello, Act iii. Sc. 3_. SHAKESPEARE.

SOLITUDE.

All heaven and earth are still,--though not in sleep,
But breathless, as we grow when feeling most:
And silent, as we stand in thoughts too deep;--
All heaven and earth are still;

* * * * *

Then stirs the feeling infinite, so felt
In solitude, where we are _least_ alone.
_Childe Harold, Canto III_. LORD BYRON.

When, musing on companions gone,
We doubly feel ourselves alone.
_Marmion, Canto II. Introduction_. SIR W. SCOTT.

_Alone_!--that worn-out word,
So idly spoken, and so coldly heard;
Yet all that poets sing, and grief hath known,
Of hopes laid waste, knells in that word--_Alone_!
_The New Timon, Pt. II_. E. BULWER-LYTTON.

O! lost to virtue, lost to manly thought,
Lost to the noble, sallies of the soul!
Who think it solitude to be alone.
_Night Thoughts, Night IV_. DR. E. YOUNG.

Converse with men makes sharp the glittering wit,
But God to man doth speak in solitude.
_Highland Solitude_. J.S. BLACKIE.

But, if much converse perhaps
Thee satiate, to short absence I could yield;
For solitude sometimes is best society,
And short retirement urges sweet return.
_Paradise Lost, Bk. IX_. MILTON.

Few are the faults we flatter when alone.
_Night Thoughts, Night V_. DR. E. YOUNG.

'Tis solitude should teach us how to die;
It hath no flatterers: vanity can give
No hollow aid; alone--man with his God must strive.
_Childe Harold, Canto II_. LORD BYRON.

How sweet, how passing sweet is solitude?
But grant me still a friend in my retreat,
Whom I may whisper--solitude is sweet.
_Retirement_. W. COWPER.

SORROW.

When sorrows come, they come not single spies,
But in battalions.
_Hamlet, Act iv. Sc. 5_. SHAKESPEARE.

One woe doth tread upon another's heel,
So fast they follow.
_Hamlet, Act iv. Sc. 7_. SHAKESPEARE.

Woes cluster; rare are solitary woes;
They love a train, they tread each other's heel.
_Night Thoughts, Night III_. DR. E. YOUNG.

Who ne'er his bread in sorrow ate,
Who ne'er the mournful midnight hours
Weeping upon his bed has sate,
He knows you not, ye Heavenly Powers.
_Hyperion, Bk. I. Motto: from Goethe's Wilhelm Meister_.
H.W. LONGFELLOW.

One fire burns