Who hath not saved some trifling thing
More prized than jewels rare,
A faded flower, a broken ring,
A tress of golden hair.
Talk not of wasted affection, affection never was wasted.
If it enrich not the heart of another, its waters, returning
Back to their springs, like the rain, shall fill them full of refreshment;
That which the fountain sends forth returns again to the fountain.
Affection is a coal that must be cool'd;
Else, suffer'd, it will set the heart on fire.
Of such affection and unbroken faith
As temper life's worst bitterness.
AFFLICTION
(See also Adversity)
Now let us thank th' eternal power, convinc'd
That Heaven but tries our virtue by affliction:
That oft the cloud which wraps the present hour,
Serves but to brighten all our future days!
Affliction's sons are brothers in distress;
A brother to relieve, how exquisite the bliss!
Damna minus consueta movent.
The afflictions to which we are accustomed, do not disturb us.
Crede mihi, miseris ccelestia numina parcunt;
Nee semper Isesos, et sine fine, premunt.
Believe me, the gods spare the afflicted, and
do not always oppress those who are unfortunate.
Henceforth I'll bear
Affliction till it do cry out itself,
Enough, enough, and die.
Thou art a soul in bliss; but I am bound
Upon a wheel of fire; that mine own tears
Do scald like molten lead.
Affliction is enamour'd of thy parts,
And thou art wedded to calamity.
Affliction is not sent in vain, young man,
From that good God, who chastens whom he loves.
Quae regio in terris nostri non plena laboris.
What region of the earth is not full of our calamities?
With silence only as their benediction,
God's angels come
Where in the shadow of a great affliction,
The soul sits dumb!
Affliction is the good man's shining scene;
Prosperity conceals his brightest ray;
As night to stars, woe lustre gives to man.
AFTON
Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes,
Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in thy praise.
AGE
(See also Antiquity)
Weak withering age no rigid law forbids.
With frugal nectar, smooth and slow with balm,
The sapless habit daily to bedew,
And give the hesitating wheels of life
Gliblier to play.
What is it to grow old?
Is it to lose the glory of the form,
The lustre of the eye?
Is it for Beauty to forego her wreath?
Yes; but not this alone.
