Athens, the eye of Greece, mother of arts
And eloquence.
117
MILTON:  Par.  Regained, Bk. iv., Line 240.

=Attempt.=

The attempt and not the deed
Confounds us.
118
SHAKS.:  Macbeth, Act ii., Sc. 2.

=Attention.=

The tongues of dying men
Enforce attention like deep harmony.
119
SHAKS.:  Richard II., Act ii., Sc. 1.

=Audience.=

Still govern thou my song,
Urania, and fit audience find, though few.
120
MILTON:  Par.  Lost, Bk. vii., Line 30,

=August.=

Rejoice! ye fields, rejoice! and wave with gold, When August round her precious gifts is flinging; Lo! the crushed wain is slowly homeward rolled:  The sunburnt reapers jocund lays are singing. 121 RUSKIN:  The Months.

=Aurora.=

Aurora now, fair daughter of the dawn,
Sprinkled with rosy light the dewy lawn.
122
POPE:  Iliad, Bk. viii., Line 1.

=Author.=

Most authors steal their works, or buy;
Garth did not write his own Dispensary,
123
POPE:  E. on Criticism, Pt. iii., Line 59.

No author ever spar’d a brother. 124 GAY:  Fables, The Elephant and the Bookseller.

How many great ones may remember’d be,
Which in their days most famously did flourish,
Of whom no word we hear, nor sign now see,
But as things wip’d out with a sponge do perish.
125
SPENSER:  Ruins of Time, St. 52.

=Authority.=

Man, proud man,
Drest in a little brief authority,
Most ignorant of what he’s most assur’d,
His glassy essence—­like an angry ape,
Plays such fantastic tricks before high heaven
As make the angels weep!
126
SHAKS.:  M. for M., Act ii., Sc. 2.

=Autumn.=

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness! 
Close bosom friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With, fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run;
To bend with apples the moss’d cottage trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core.
127
KEATS:  To Autumn.

Divinest autumn! who may paint thee best,
Forever changeful o’er the changeful globe? 
Who guess thy certain crown, thy favorite crest,
The fashion of thy many-colored robe?
128
R.H.  STODDARD:  Autumn.

Autumn wins you best by this its mute
Appeal to sympathy for its decay.
129
ROBERT BROWNING:  Paracelsus, Sc. i.

The lands are lit
With all the autumn blaze of Golden Rod;
And everywhere the Purple Asters nod
And bend and wave and flit.
130
HELEN HUNT:  Asters and Golden Rod.

I saw old Autumn in the misty morn
Stand shadowless like silence, listening
To silence, for no lonely bird would sing
Into his hollow ear from woods forlorn,
Nor lowly hedge nor solitary thorn.
131
HOOD:  Autumn.