413. N. «Imperial Cæsar, dead, and turned to clay Might stop a hole to keep the wind away.»
Bulbuls, doting on roses, oft complain
How forward breezes rend their veils in twain;
Sit we beneath this rose, which many a time
Has sunk to earth, and sprung from earth again.
414. L. N. B. So Moschus on the mallows.
Suppose the world goes well with you, what then?
When life's last page is read and turned, what then?
Suppose you live a hundred years of bliss,
Yea, and a hundred years besides, what then?
415. C. L. N A. I. J. See Vullers, p. 100.
How is it that of all the leafy tribe,
Cypress and lily men as «free» describe?
This has a dozen tongues, yet holds her peace,
That has a hundred hands which take no bribe.