Imatges de pÓgina

Ay, think upon the cause

Forget it not-When you lie down to rest,
Let it be black among your dreams; and when
The morn returns, so let it stand between
The sun and you, as an ill-omen'd cloud
Upon a summer-day of festival.

Byron's Doge of Venice.

A slave insults me-I require his punishment
From his proud master's hands; if he refuse it,
The offence grows his, and let him answer it.

Thither full fraught with mischievous revenge,
Accurs'd, and in a cursed hour he hies.


Milton's Paradise Lost, b. 2.

Revenge, at first thought sweet,

Bitter ere long, back on itself recoils.


Extol not riches then, the toil of fools,

Ibid. b. 9.

The wise man's cumbrance, if not snare, more apt
To slacken virtue, and abate her edge,

Than prompt her to do aught may merit praise.

Milton's Paradise Regained, b. 2.

Therefore, if at great things thou wouldst arrive,
Get riches first, get wealth.

Happy the man, who, void of cares and strife,
In silken or in leathern purse retains

A splendid shilling.


Philip's Splendid Shilling.

High-built abundance, heap on heap! for what?
To breed new wants, and beggar us the more;
Then, make a richer scramble for the throng.

Young's Night Thoughts, n. 6.

Much learning shows how little mortals know;
Much wealth, how little worldlings can enjoy :
At best, it babies us with endless toys,
And keeps us children till we drop to dust.
As monkeys at a mirror stand amaz'd,
They fail to find what they so plainly see;
Thus men, in shining riches, see the face
Of happiness, nor know it is a shade;
But gaze, and touch, and peep, and peep again,
And wish, and wonder it is absent still.

Young's Night Thoughts, n. 6.

Riches are oft by guilt and baseness earn'd;
Or dealt by chance to shield a lucky knave,
Or throw a cruel sunshine on a fool.
But for one end, one much neglected use,
Are riches worth your care; (for nature's wants
Are few, and without opulence supply'd ;)
This noble end is, to produce the soul;
To show the virtues in their fairest light;
To make humanity the minister

Of bounteous Providence; and teach the breast

The generous luxury the gods enjoy.

Armstrong's Art of Preserving Health, b..4.

Vers'd in the woes and vanities of life,
He pitied man and much he pitied those

Whom falsely-smiling fate has curs'd with means
To dissipate their days in quest of joy.


How rev'rend is the face of this tall pile,
Whose ancient pillars rear their marble heads,
To bear aloft its arch'd and pond'rous roof!
By its own weight made stedfast and immoveable.


Looking tranquillity! It strikes an awe
And terror to my aching sight! The tombs
And monumental caves of death look cold,
And shoot a chillness to my trembling heart.

Congreve's Mourning Bride.



Then must'ring all her wiles,

With blandish'd parlies, feminine assaults,
Tongue-batteries, she surceas'd not day nor night
To storm me over-watch'd, and weary'd out,
At times when men seek most repose

and rest,

I yielded, and unlock'd her all my heart.

Milton's Samson Agonistes.


And what a thing, ye gods, is scorn or pity!
Heap on me, Heaven, the hate of all mankind;
Load me with malice, envy, detestation ;
Let me be horrid to all apprehension,

And the world shun me, so I 'scape but scorn.

Infamous wretch !


So much below my scorn, I dare not kill thee. Dryden's Duke of Guise.

Think not there is no smile

I can bestow on thee. There is a smile,

A smile of nature too, which I can spare,

And yet perhaps, thou wilt not thank me for it.

Joanna Baillie's De Monfort, a. 2, s. 1.

could not tame my nature down; for he

Must serve who fain would sway-and soothe-and


And watch all time-and pry into all place-
And be a living lie-who would become
A mighty thing amongst the mean, and such
The mass are; I disdained to mingle with
A herd, though to be leader—and of wolves.
The lion is alone, and so am I.

Byron's Manfred, a. 3, s. 1.
Pardon is for men,

And not for reptiles-we have none for Steno,
And no resentment; things like him must sting,
And higher beings suffer: 'tis the charter

Of life. The man who dies by the adder's fang
May have the crawler crush'd, but feels no anger:
'Twas the worm's nature; and some men are worms
In soul, more than the living things of tombs.

Byron's Doge of Venice, a. 5, s. 1.

Know ye not then, said Satan, fill'd with scorn,
Know ye not me? Ye knew me once no mate
For you, there sitting where ye durst not soar :
Not to know me argues yourselves unknown,
The lowest of your throng; or if

ye know, Why ask ye, and superfluous begin

Your message, like to end as much in vain.

Milton's Paradise Lost, b. 4.

He hears

On all sides, from innumerable tongues,

A dismal universal hiss, the sound

Of public scorn.


Ibid. b. 10.

I loved to stand on some high beetling rock,
Or dusky brow of savage promontory,

Watching the waves with all their white crests dancing
Come, like thick-plum'd squadrons, to the shore

Gallantly bounding.

Sir A. Hunt's Julian.




Oh, the bewitching tongues of faithless men!
'Tis thus the false hyena makes her moan,
To draw the pitying traveller to her den.
Your sex are so, such false dissemblers all;
With sighs and plaints y' entice poor women's hearts,
And all that pity you are made your prey.

Otway's Orphan.

He ended, and his words replete with guile,
Into her heart too easy entrance won.

Milton's Paradise Lost, b. 9.

Ah then, ye fair!

Be greatly cautious of your sliding hearts:
Dare not the infectious sigh; the pleading look,
Down-cast, and low, in meek submission drest,
But full of guile. Let not the serpent tongue,
Prompt to deceive, with adulation smooth,
Gain on your purpos'd will. Nor in the bower,
Where woodbines flaunt, and roses shed a couch,
While evening draws her crimson curtains round,
Trust your soft minutes with betraying man.

Thomson's Seasons-Spring.


The selfish heart deserves the pain it feels.
More gen'rous sorrow, while it sinks, exalts;
And conscious virtue mitigates the pang.

Young's Night Thoughts, n. 1.


Would'st thou have men without them? must no rep


Breathe, save the erect ones? Byron's Cain, a. 2, S. 1.

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