Imatges de pÓgina
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He above the rest

In shape and gesture proudly eminent
Stood like a tow'r; his form had not yet lost
All her original brightness, nor appear'd

Less than arch-angel ruin'd.

Milton's Paradise Lost, b. 1.

Forth

In order came the grand infernal peers:
Midst came their mighty paramount, and seem'd
Alone th' antagonist of Heav'n, nor less

Than Hell's dread emperor with pomp supreme,
And god-like imitated state.

Ay me, they little know

How dearly I abide that boast so vain,
Under what torments inwardly I groan,

While they adore me on the throne of Hell.
With diadem and sceptre high advanc'd,
The lower still I fall, only supreme
In misery; such joy ambition finds.

In himself was all his state,

Ibid. b. 2.

Ibid. b. 4.

More solemn than the tedious pomp that waits
On princes, when their rich retinue long
Of horses led, and grooms besmear'd with gold,
Dazzles the crowd, and sets them all agape.
Ibid. b. 5.

What is station high?
'Tis a proud mendicant; it boasts, and begs;
It begs an alms of homage from the throng,
And oft the throng denies its charity.

Young's Night Thoughts, n. 6.

Mark how the palace lifts a lying front,
Concealing often, in magnific jail,
Proud want; a deep unanimated gloom!

Thomson's Liberty.

GRIEF.

He that

Foretels his own calamity, and makes
Events before they come, twice over doth
Endure the pains of evil destiny.

Davenant's Distresses.

Retiring from the popular noise, I seek
This unfrequented place to find some ease,
Easy to the body some, none to the mind
From restless thoughts, that like a deadly swarm
Of hornets arm'd, no sooner found alone,
But rush upon me thronging, and present
Time past, what once I was, and what am now.

Milton's Samson Agonistes.

Be not over exquisite

To cast the fashion of uncertain evils:

For grant they be so, while they rest unknown,
What need a man forestall his date of grief,
And run to meet what he would most avoid?

Milton's Comus.

There is a kind of mournful eloquence

In thy dumb grief, which shames all clam'rous sorrow. Lee's Theodosius.

My soul lies hid in shades of grief,

Whence, like the bird of night, with half-shut eyes She peeps, and sickens at the sight of day.

Dryden's Rival Ladies.

My heart is wither'd at that piteous sight,
As early blossoms are with eastern blasts.

Dryden's Spanish Friar.

My heart sinks in me,

And every slacken'd fibre drops its hold,
Like nature letting down the springs of life.

Ibid.

Oh! nothing now can please me: Darkness and solitude, and sighs, and tears, And all the inseparable train of grief,

Attend my steps for ever. Dryden's Amphitryon.
Ye cruel powers!

Take me as you have made me, miserable:
You cannot make me guilty! 'twas my fate;

And you made that, not I. Dryden's Don Sebastian.

Mine is a grief of fury, not despair!

And if a manly drop or two fall down,

It scalds along my cheeks, like the green wood,
That sputtering in the flames, works outward into

tears.

Dryden's Cleomenes.

I am dumb, as solemn sorrow ought to be;
Could my griefs speak, the tale would have no end.

Otway's Caius Marius.

O peaceful solitude !

Here all things smile, and in sweet concert join:
All but my thoughts, that still are out of tune,
And break like jarring strings, the harmony.

Tate's Loyal General.

I am the centre of all miseries :
What wander from me, leave their proper course.
Crown's Darius.

By day she seeks some melancholy shade,
To hide her sorrows from the prying world;
At night she watches all the long, long hours,
And listens to the winds and beating rain,
With sighs as loud, and tears that fall as fast.

Rowe's Fair Penitent, a. 1, s. 1.

O, take me in a fellow-mourner with thee;
I'll number groan for groan, and tear for tear;

And when the fountains of thy eyes are dry,
Mine shall supply the stream, and weep for both!
Rowe's Fair Penitent.

The storm of grief bears hard upon his youth,
And bends him, like a drooping flower, to earth.

Ibid. a. 5, s. 1.

Her streaming eyes bent ever on the earth,
Except when in some bitter pang of sorrow,
To Heav'n she seem'd in fervent zeal to raise,
And beg that mercy man deny'd her here.

Rowe's Jane Shore, a. 5, s. 1.

Give me your drops, ye soft descending rains,
Give me your streams, ye never-ceasing springs,
That my sad eyes may still supply my duty,
And feed an everlasting flood of sorrow.

She never sees the sun, but thro' her tears;
And wakes to sigh the live-long nights away.

Some secret venom preys upon his heart;
A stubborn and unconquerable flame

Ibid.

Ibid.

Creeps in his veins, and drinks the streams of life.

Rowe's Lady Jane Grey, a. 1, s. 1.

The time for tender thoughts and soft endearments
Is fled away and gone; joy has forsaken us;
Our hearts have now another part to play.

Ibid. a. 4, s. 1.

That eating canker, grief, with wasteful spite,
Preys on the rosy bloom of youth and beauty.

Rowe's Ambitious Stepmother.

Words will have way or grief, suppress'd in vain, Would burst its passage with th' outrushing soul. Hill's Alzira.

Why dost thou frown upon me?

My blood runs cold, my heart forgets to heave,
And life itself goes out at thy displeasure!

A soul exasperated in ills, falls out
With every thing, its friend, itself.

Addison's Cato.

What a damp hangs on me!
These sprightly tuneful airs but skim along
The surface of my soul, not enter there :
She does not dance to this enchanting sound.
How, like a broken instrument, beneath
The skilful touch my joyless heart lies dead!
Nor answers to the master's hand divine!

Ibid.

Young's Brothers, a. 2.

How vain all outward effort to supply
The soul with joy! The noontide sun is dark,
And music discord, when the heart is low.

We'll fly to some far distant lonely village,
Forget our former state, and breed with slaves,
Sweat in the eye of day, and when night comes,
With bodies coarsely fill'd, and vacant souls,
Sleep like the labour'd hinds and never think;
For if I think again, I shall go mad.

Ibid.

Sewell's Sir Walter Raleigh.

Awhile she stood

Transform'd by grief to marble, and appear'd

Her own pale monument; but when she breath'd
The secret anguish of her wounded soul,

So moving were the plaints, they would have sooth'd
The stooping falcon to suspend his flight,

And spare his morning prey.

Fenton's Mariamne.

Sweet source of every virtue, O sacred sorrow! he who knows not thee, Knows not the best emotions of the heart,

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