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Pride is a fault that great men blush not to own: it is the ennobled offspring of self-love though, it must be confessed, grave and pompous vanity, Iike a fat plebeian in a rove of office, does very often assume its name.

Joanna Baillie

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Joanna Baillie
Age: 88 †
Born: 1762
Born: September 11
Died: 1851
Died: February 23
Playwright
Poet
Tragedy Writer
Writer
Joanna Baillie
Love
Names
Assume
Rove
Though
Graves
Confessed
Often
Vanity
Blush
Doe
Assuming
Pompous
Self
Faults
Offspring
Must
Pride
Grave
Plebeian
Great
Office
Fats
Plebeians
Men
Name
Fault
Ennobled

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But woman's grief is like a summer storm, Short as it violent is.
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There is a sight all hearts beguiling-- A youthful mother to her infant smiling, Who with spread arms and dancing feet, A cooing voice, returns its answer sweet.
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I have seen the day, when, if a man made himself ridiculous, the world would laugh at him. But now, everything that is mean, disgusting, and absurd, pleases them but so much the better!
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A willing heart adds feather to the heel.
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A good man's prayers will from the deepest dungeon climb heaven's height, and bring a blessing down.
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The plainest case in many words entangling.
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Half-uttered praise is to the curious mind, as to the eye half-veiled beauty is, more precious than the whole.
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Busy work brings after ease Ease brings sport and sport brings rest For young and old, of all degrees, The mingled lot is best.
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Heaven often smites in mercy, even when the blow is severest.
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But dreams full oft are found of real events The form and shadows.
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The bliss even of a moment still is bliss.
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O lovely Sisters! is it true That they are all inspired by you, And write by inward magic charm'd, And high enthusiasm warm'd?
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Stand there, damn'd meddling villain, and be silent For if thou utt'rest but a single word, A cough or hem, to cross me in my speech, I'll send thy cursed spirit from the earth, To bellow with the damn'd!
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Time never bears such moments on his wing as when he flies too swiftly to be marked.
Joanna Baillie
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I am as one Who doth attempt some lofty mountain's height, And having gained what to the upcast eye The summit's point appear'd, astonished sees Its cloudy top, majestic and enlarged, Towering aloft, as distant as before.
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Ah! happy is the man whose early lot Hath made him master of a furnish'd cot Who trains the vine that round his window grows, And after setting sun his garden hoes Whose wattled pails his own enclosure shield, Who toils not daily in another's field.
Joanna Baillie
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Think'st thou there are no serpents in the world But those who slide along the grassy sod, And sting the luckless foot that presses them? There are who in the path of social life Do bask their spotted skins in Fortune's sun, And sting the soul.
Joanna Baillie
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It is so seldom that a young fellow has any inclination for the company of an old man. . .
Joanna Baillie
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My day is closed! the gloom of night is come! a hopeless darkness settles over my fate.
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Good-morrow to thy sable beak, And glossy plumage, dark and sleek, Thy crimson moon and azure eye
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