in a number of quiet attentions not so pointed as to alarm, nor so vague as not to be understood. Sterne.
But pleasures are like poppies spread, You seize the flowers, the bloom is shed, Or like the snow falls in the river A moment white then melts for ever.
Burns.
Le lache craint la mort, et c'est tout ce qu'il craint.
Racine.
It has been and still is the fate of superior genius to be beheld either with silent or abusive envy. It makei ill way like the sun which we look upon with pain, unless something passes over him that obscures his glory. We then view with eagerness the shadow, the cloud, or the spot, and are pleased with what eclipses the brightness, we otherwise cannot bear. ,
If good we plant not, vice will fill the mind, And weeds take up the space for flowers designed, The human heart ne'er knows a state of rest, Bad hearts to worse, and better tends to best— We either gain or lose; we sink or rise, Nor rests our struggling nature till it dies; Those very passions that our peace invade, If rightly pointed, blessings may be made.
