| C.N. Douglas, comp. Forty Thousand Quotations: Prose and Poetical. 1917. | | | | Thomas Love Peacock |
| | | | Clouds on clouds, in volumes driven, |
| Curtain round the vault of heaven. |
| 1 |
| | Death comes to all. His cold and sapless hand |
| Waves o’er the world, and beckons us away. |
| Who shall resist the summons? |
| 2 |
| | Dreams, which, beneath the hov’ring shades of night, |
| Sport with the ever-restless minds of men, |
| Descend not from the gods. Each busy brain |
| Creates its own. |
| 3 |
| | He bore a simple wild-flower wreath: |
| Narcissus, and the sweet brier rose; |
| Vervain, and flexile thyme, that breathe |
| Rich fragrance; modest heath, that glows |
| With purple bells; the amaranth bright, |
| That no decay, nor fading knows, |
| Like true love’s holiest, rarest light; |
| And every purest flower, that blows |
| In that sweet time, which Love most blesses, |
| When spring on summer’s confines presses. |
| 4 |
| | How troublesome is day! |
| It calls us from our sleep away; |
| It bids us from our pleasant dreams awake, |
| And sends us forth to keep or break |
| Our promises to pay. |
| How troublesome is day! |
| 5 |
| | Man yields to death; and man’s sublimest works |
| Must yield at length to Time. |
| 6 |
| | The present is our own; but while we speak, |
| We cease from its possession, and resign |
| The stage we tread on, to another race, |
| As vain, and gay, and mortal as ourselves. |
| 7 |
| | Time is lord of thee: |
| Thy wealth, thy glory, and thy name are his. |
| 8 |
| | To chase the clouds of life’s tempestuous hours, |
| To strew its short but weary way with flow’rs, |
| New hopes to raise, new feelings to impart, |
| And pour celestial balsam on the heart; |
| For this to man was lovely woman giv’n, |
| The last, best work, the noblest gift of Heav’n. |
| 9 | | |
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