Imatges de pÓgina
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But while hope lives

Let not the generous die. 'Tis late before

The brave despair. Thomson's Sophonisba, a. 1, s. 3.

True courage scorns

To vent her prowess in a storm of words;

And to the valiant actions speak alone.

Smollett's Regicide.

Not to the ensanguin'd field of death alone
Is valour limited she sits serene

In the deliberate council, sagely scans

The source of action; weighs, prevents, provides,
And scorns to count her glories, from the feats

Of brutal force alone.

This is true courage, not the brutal force
Of vulgar heroes, but the firm resolve
Of virtue and of reason. He who thinks
Without their aid to shine in deeds of arms,
Builds on a sandy basis his renown;

A dream, a vapour, or an ague-fit

May make a coward of him.

Ibid.

Whitehead's Roman Father.

The intent and not the deed

Is in our power; and therefore who dares greatly,

Does greatly.

Browne's Barbarossa.

The brave man is not he who feels no fear,
For that were stupid and irrational;

But he, whose noble soul its fear subdues,

And bravely dares the danger nature shrinks from.
As for your youth, whom blood and blows delight,
Away with them! there is not in their crew

One valiant spirit. Joanna Baillie's Basil, a. 3, s. 1.

Rocks have been shaken from the solid base;

But what shall move a firm and dauntless mind?

Ibid, a. 4, s. 2.

D

I would, God knows, in a poor woodman's hut
Have spent my peaceful days, and shar'd my crust
With her who would have cheer'd me, rather far
Than on this throne; but being what I am,

I'll be it nobly.

Joanna Baillie's Constantine Paleologus, a. 2, s. 4.

There's nought within the
But I would dare and do.

My heart is firm :

compass of humanity
Sir A. Hunt's Julian.

The torture! you have put me there already,
Daily, since I was Doge; but if you will
Add the corporeal rack, you may these limbs
Will yield with age to crushing iron; but

There's that within my heart shall strain your engines.
Byron's Doge of Venice, a. 5, s. 1.

Fate made me what I am-may make me nothingBut either that or nothing must I be;

I will not live degraded.

Byron's Sardanapalus, a. 1, s. 2.

What though the field be lost?

All is not lost; th' unconquerable will,
And study of revenge, immortal hate,
And courage never to submit or yield,
And what is else not to be overcome;
That glory never shall his wrath or might
Extort from me.

Milton's Paradise Lost, b. 1.

Darken'd so, yet shone

Above them all the arch-angel: but his face
Deep scars of thunder had intrench'd, and care
Sat on his faded cheek, but under brows
Of dauntless courage, and considerate pride
Waiting revenge.

To bow and sue for grace
With suppliant knee, and deify his pow'r,

Ibid.

Who from the terror of this arm so late
Doubted his empire; that were low indeed,
That were an ignominy and shame beneath
This downfall.

Milton's Paradise Lost, b. 1.

But he his wonted pride

Soon recollecting, with high words, that bore Semblance of worth not substance, gently rais'd Their fainting courage, and dispell'd their fears. Ibid.

I should ill become this throne, O peers,

And this imperial sov'reignty, adorn'd

With splendor, arm'd with pow'r, if ought propos'd
And judg'd of public moment, in the shape
Of difficulty or dangers could deter

Me from attempting.

Ibid, b. 2.

Th' undaunted fiend what this might be admir'd,
Admir'd, not fear'd; God and his Son except,
Created thing nought valued he nor shunn'd.

Incens'd with indignation, Satan stood
Unterrify'd, and like a comet burn'd,
That fires the length of Ophiuchus huge
In th' arctic sky, and from his horrid hair
Shakes pestilence and war.

No thought of flight,

None of retreat, no unbecoming deed

That argu'd fear: each on himself rely'd,
As only in his arm the moment lay

Of victory.

Ibid.

Ibid.

Ibid, b. 6.

Is there the man, into the lion's den
Who dares intrude to snatch his young away

?

Thomson's Britannia.

COURT.

The court's a golden, but a fatal circle,
Upon whose magic skirts, a thousand devils
In chrystal forms sit, tempting innocence,

And beckon early virtue from its centre. Lee's Nero.

Virtue must be thrown off, 'tis a coarse garment,
Too heavy for the sunshine of a court.

Dryden's Spanish Friar.

Fly from the court's pernicious neighbourhood;
Where innocence is sham'd, and blushing modesty
Is made the scorner's jest; where hate, deceit,
And deadly ruin wear the masks of beauty,
And draw deluded fools with shews of pleasure.
Rowe's Jane Shore, a. 2, s. 1.

Unhappy lot of all that shine at courts;
For forc'd compliance, or for zealous virtue,
Still odious to the monarch, or the people.

Dr. Johnson's Irene.

Hast thou then liv'd in courts? Hast thou grown grey
Beneath the mask a subtle statesman wears

To hide his secret soul, and dost not know
That of all fickle fortune's transient gifts,
Favour is most deceitful?

Hannah More's Daniel, pt. 1.

mouth

See there he comes, th' exalted idol comes !
The circle's form'd, and all his fawning slaves
Devoutly bow to earth;
from every
The nauseous flattery flows, which he returns
With promises which die as soon as born.
Vile intercourse! where virtue has no place.
Frown but the monarch, all his glories fade;
He mingles with the throng, outcast, undone,

The pageant

of a day; without one friend
To soothe his tortur'd mind; all, all are fled.
For, tho' they bask'd in his meridian ray,
The insects vanish as his beams decline.

Somervlile's Chase, b. 4.

And squeeze my hand, and beg me come to-morrow. Refusal! canst thou wear a smoother form?

Young's Night Thoughts, n. 4.

'Tis a fearful spectacle to see

So many maniacs dancing in their chains.
They gaze upon the links that hold them fast
With eyes of anguish, execrate their lot,
Then shake them in despair, and dance again.

Cowper's Task, b. 2.

There we grow early grey, but never wise.
There form connections, and acquire no friends. Ibid.

There the sycophant, and he

That with bare-headed and obsequious bows
Begs a warm office, doom'd to a cold jail

And groat per diem, if his patron frown. Ibid, b. 3.

COURTIER,

See how he sets his countenance for deceit,

And promises a lie before he speaks.

Dryden's All for Love.

How many men

Have spent their blood in their dear country's service,
Yet now pine under want; while selfish slaves,
That even would cut their throats whom now they

fawn on,

Like deadly locusts, eat the honey up,

Which those industrious bees so hardly toil'd for.

Otway's Orphan,

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