Imatges de pÓgina

See, winter comes, to rule the varied year,
Sullen and sad, with all his rising train ;
Vapours, and clouds, and storms.

Thomson's Seasons-Winter.

Hung o'er the farthest verge of Heaven, the sun
Scarce spreads thro' ether the dejected day.
Faint are his gleams, and ineffectual shoot
His struggling rays, in horizontal lines,

Thro' the thick air; as cloth'd in cloudy storm,
Weak, wan, and broad, he skirts the southern sky;
And, soon descending, to the long dark night,
Wide shading all, the prostrate world resigns.

Nought around

Strikes his sad eye, but deserts lost in snow;
And heavy loaded groves; and solid floods,
That stretch, athwart the solitary vast,
Their icy horror to the frozen main.

Miserable they;

Who, here entangled in the gathering ice,
Take their last look of the descending sun;



While, full of death, and fierce with ten-fold frost,
The long long night, incumbent o'er their heads,
Falls horrible.


Oh Winter! ruler of th' inverted year,
Thy scatter'd hair with sleet-like ashes fill'd,
Thy breath congeal'd upon thy lips, thy cheeks
Fring'd with a beard made white with other snows
Than those of age; thy forehead wrapt in clouds,
A leafless branch thy sceptre, and thy throne,
A sliding car indebted to no wheels,

But urged by storms along its slipp'ry way;
I love thee, all unlovely as thou seem'st,
And dreaded as thou art.

Cowper's Task, b. 4.

I crown thee king of intimate delights,
Fire-side enjoyments, home-born happiness,
And all the comforts that the lowly roof
Of undisturb'd retirement, and the hours
Of long uninterrupted evening know.


Cowper's Task, b. 4.

Wit, a true pagan, deifies the brute,

And lifts our swine-enjoyments from the mire.

Young's Night Thoughts, n. 5.

Sense is our helmet, wit is but the plume.
The plume exposes, 'tis our helmet saves.
Sense is the di'mond, weighty, solid, sound;
When cut by wit, it casts a brighter beam;
Yet, wit apart, it is a diamond still.

Young's Night Thoughts, n. 8.

Wit makes an enterpriser; sense a man,
Wisdom is rare-wit abounds.

Passion can give it; sometimes wine inspires
The lucky flash; and madness rarely fails.



I 'spy'd a wither'd hag, with age grown double,
Picking dry sticks, and mumbling to herself;
Her eyes with scalding rheum, were gall'd and red,
Cold palsy shook her head, her hands seem'd wither'd,
And on her crook'd shoulders had she wrapp'd
The tatter'd remnants of an old strip'd hanging,
Which serv'd to keep her carcase from the cold.
Otway's Orphan.

These midnight hags,

By force of potent spells, of bloody characters,
And conjurations, horrible to hear,
Call fiends and spectres from the yawning deep,
And set the ministers of hell at work.

Rowe's Jane Shore.

Ye spirits of the unbounded universe!
Whom I have sought in darkness and in light-
Ye, who do compass earth about, and dwell
In subtler essence-ye, to whom the tops
Of mountains inaccessible are haunts,

And earth's and ocean's caves familiar things-
I call upon ye by the written charm,

Which gives me power upon you-rise! appear!

Byron's Manfred, a. 1, s. 1.

She said, and rais'd her skinny hand
As in defiance to high heaven,

And stretch'd her long lean finger forth,
And spake aloud the words of power.

Southey's Thalaba, b. 2.


He that holds religious and sacred thoughts
Of a woman; he that bears so reverend
A respect to her, that he will not touch
Her, but with a kiss'd hand and timorous
Heart; he that adores her like his goddess,
Let him be sure she'll shun him like her slave.

Chapman's May Day.
Out, out, Hyæna; these are thy wonted arts,
And arts of every woman false like thee,
To break all faith, all vows, deceive, betray;
Then as repentant to submit, beseech,
And reconcilement move with feign'd remorse,
Confess, and promise wonders in her change.

Milton's Samson Agonistes.

There's not a grain of faith or honesty

In all your sex you've tongues like the hyæna,
And only speak us fair, to ruin us;

You carry springs within your eyes, and can
Outweep the crocodile, till our too much pity
Betray us to your merciless devouring.

Shirley's Love's Cruelty.

The fox,

Hyena, crocodile, and all beasts of craft,

Have been distill'd to make one woman.

Randolph's Jealous Lovers.

Henceforth not name a woman :

'Tis treason to my ear; they are

The bane of empire, and the rot of power;

The cause of all our mischiefs, murders, massacres ! What seas of blood they've spilt in former ages.

Lee's Constantine.

It is their trade,

The very nature, soul, and life-blood of them,
To whine, and cry, and turn their heads away,
When their hearts doat on what they seem to scorn.
Lee's Casar Borgia.

O woman in perfection!

Thou dazzling mixture of ten thousand Circes,
In one bright heap, cast by some huddling god. Ibid.

Oh, my hard fate! why did I trust her ever?
What story is not full of woman's falsehood?
The sex is all a sea of wide destruction :
We are vent' rous barks, that leave our home
For those sure dangers which their smiles conceal;
At first they draw us in with flatt'ring looks
Of summer calms, and a soft gale of sighs:
Sometimes, like syrens, charm us with their songs,
Dance on the waves, and shew their golden locks;
But when the tempest comes, then, then they leave us !
Or rather help the new calamity,

And the whole storm is one injurious woman!
Lee's Mithridaes.

Forbidding me to follow, she invites me :
This is the mould of which I made the sex;

I gave them but one tongue to say us nay,
And two kind eyes to grant.

Dryden's Amphytrion.

Curs'd vassalage of womankind!

First idoliz'd, till love's hot fit be o'er;

Then slaves to those who courted us before.

Dryden's State of Innocence.

What is't a woman cannot do?

She'll make a statesman quite forget his cunning,
And trust his dearest secrets to her breast,
Where fops have daily entrance; make a priest,
Forgetting the hypocrisy of his office,

Dance, and shew tricks, to prove his strength and brawn ;

Make a projector quibble; an old judge

Put on false hair, and paint. And after all,
Tho' she be known the lewdest of her sex,

She'll make some fool or other think her honest.

Otway's Caius Marius.

Their sex is one gross cheat! they only study
How to deceive, betray, and ruin man!
They have it by tradition from their mothers,
Which they improve each day, and grow more
exquisite !

Their painting, patching, all their chamber-arts,
And public affectations, are but tricks

To draw fond man into that snare, their love!

Otway's Atheist.

Who can describe

Women's hypocrisies! their subtle wiles,
Betraying smiles, feign'd tears, inconstancies!
Their painted outsides, and corrupted minds,
The sum of all their follies, and their falsehoods?
Otway's Orphan.

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