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me, that she cannot expect to excel if she does not practice a good deal.” “I assure you, madam,” he replied, “that she does not need such advice. She practises very constantly.” “So much the better. It cannot be done too much; and when I next write to her, I shall charge her not to neglect it on any account. I often tell young ladies that no excellence in music is to be acquired without constant practice. I have told Miss Bennet several times, that she will never play really well unless she

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whirlwind scales the heaven. Wild with his pain, he sought the bright abodes, There sullen sat beneath the sire of gods, Show'd the celestial blood, and with a groan Thus pour'd his plaints before the immortal throne: "Can Jove, supine, flagitious facts survey, And brook the furies of this daring day? For mortal men celestial powers engage, And gods on gods exert eternal rage: From thee, O father! all these ills we bear, And thy fell daughter with the shield and spear; Thou gavest that fury to the realms of light, Pernicious, wild, regardless of the right. All heaven beside reveres thy sovereign sway, Thy voice we hear, and thy behests obey: 'Tis hers to offend, and even offending share Thy breast, thy counsels, thy distinguish'd care: So boundless she, and thou so partial grown, Well may we deem the wondrous birth thy own. Now frantic Diomed, at her command, Against the immortals lifts his raging hand: The heavenly Venus first his fury found, Me next encountering, me he dared to wound; Vanquish'd I fled; even I, the god of fight, From mortal madness scarce was saved by flight. Else hadst thou seen me sink on yonder plain, Heap'd round, and heaving under loads of slain! Or pierced with Grecian darts, for ages lie, Condemn'd to pain, though fated not to die." Him thus upbraiding, with a wrathful look The lord of thunders view'd, and stern bespoke: "To me, perfidious! this lamenting strain? Of lawless force shall lawless Mars complain? Of all the gods who tread the spangled skies, Thou most unjust, most odious in our eyes! Inhuman discord is thy dire delight, The waste of slaughter, and the rage of fight. No bounds, no law, thy fiery temper quells, And all thy mother in thy soul rebels. In vain our threats, in vain our power we use; She gives the example, and her son pursues. Yet long the inflicted pangs thou shall not mourn, Sprung since thou art from Jove, and heavenly-born. Els