Imatges de pàgina
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ENVY.

ENVY is expressed a little more moderately in its gestures than Malice, but is much of the same kind.

"Base Envy withers at another's joy,

And hates the excellence it cannot reach".

SATAN'S SOLILOQUY ON THE SUN.
O thou that with surpassing glory crown'd,
Look'st from thy sole dominion like the God
Of this new world; at whose sight all the stars
Hide their diminished heads; to thee I call,
But with no friendly voice, and add thy name,
O Sun, to tell thee how I hate thy beams,
That bring to my remembrance from what state
I fell; how glorious once above thy sphere,
'Till pride and worse ambition threw me down,
Warring in heaven against heaven's matchless king!

GLO'STER, ENVIOUS OF KING EDWARD.
Ay, Edward will use women honourably,
Would he were wasted, marrow, bones, and all,
That from his loins no hopeful branch may spring,
To cross me, from the golden time I look for!-
I'll make my heaven in a lady's lap,
And deck my body in gay ornaments,
And witch sweet ladies with my words and looks;
O, miserable thought! And more unlikely,
Than to accomplish twenty golden crowns!
Why, love foreswore me in my mother's womb;
And, for I should not deal in her soft laws,
She did corrupt frail nature with some bribe
To shrink mine arm up like a wither'd shrub;
To make an envious mountain on my back,
Where sits deformity to mock my body;
To shape my legs of an unequal size;
To disproportion me in every part,
Like to a chaos, or an unlick'd bear-whelp,
That carries no impression like the dam.

And am I then a man to be beloved?

O monstrous fault, to harbour such a thought.

PITY.

PITY,-a mixed passion of love and grief, looks down upon distress with lifted hands; eyebrows drawn down; mouth open, and features drawn together. Its expression, as to looks and gesture, is the same as in suffering or pain, but more moderate, as the feelings are only sympathetic, and therefore one remove, as it were, more distant from the soul, than what one feels in one's own person.

Pity is active sense of alien grief;

Think some dear dying sufferer begs relief;
Aidful idea springs to succour woe,

And every quivering sinew learns to glow;
While mild as sighing saints, the saddening face,
Clouds into anguish with relenting grace.

DESDEMONA ON HEARING OTHELLO'S STORY.

She swore,-In faith, 'twas strange, 'twas passing strange;
'Twas pitiful, 'twas wondrous pitiful :

She wish'd she had not heard it; yet she wish'd

That heaven had made her such a man! she thank'd me;
And bade me, if I had a friend that loved her,
I should but teach him how to tell my story,
And that would woo her.

He

FROM ALEXANDER'S FEAST.

He chose a mournful muse,

Soft pity to infuse;

sung Darius great and good,
By too severe a fate,

Fall'n, fall'n, fall'n, fall'n,

Fall'n from his high estate,
And weltering in his blood!

Deserted at his utmost need,
By those his former bounty fed,
On the bare earth expos'd he lies,
With not a friend to close his eyes!
With downcast eyes the joyless victor sate,
Revolving in his alter'd soul.

The various turns of fate below,

And now and then a sigh it stole,
And tears began to flow!—

HAMLET'S REFLECTIONS ON SEEING YORICK'S SCULL. Alas! poor Yorick! I knew him, Horatio; a fellow of infinite jest; of most excellent fancy: he hath borne me on his back a thousand times; and now, how abhorred in my imagination it is! my gorge rises at it. Here hung those lips, that I have kissed I know not how oft. Where be your gibes, now? your gambols? your songs? your flashes of merriment that were wont to set the table on a roar? Not one now to mock your own grinning? quite chap-fallen? Now get you to my lady's chamber, and tell her, let her paint an inch thick, to this complexion she must come at last; make her laugh at that.

YORK, IN RICHARD II.

As in a theatre, the eyes of men,

After a well grac'd actor leaves the stage,
Are idly bent on him that enters next,

Thinking his prattle to be tedious.

E'en so, or with much more contempt, men's eyes
Did scowl on Richard; No man cry'd God save him;
No joyful tongue gave him his welcome home,

But dust was thrown upon his sacred head,
Which, with such gentle sorrow he shook of,—
His face still combatting with tears and smiles,
The badges of his grief and patience,—

That had not God for some strong purpose, steel'd
The hearts of men, they must perforce have melted,
And barbarism itself have pitied him.

But heav'n hath a hand in these events;

To whose high will we bound our calm contents.

THE WIDOW,—FROM BLAIR'S GRAVE.
The new made widow too—I've sometimes spied,
Sad sight! slow moving o'er the prostrate dead,
Listless she crawls along in doleful black,
While bursts of sorrow gush from either eye,
Prone on the grave of the dear man she drops;

While busy med❜ling memory in barbarous succession,

Musters up the past endearments of their softer hours,

Tenacious of its theme. Still, still she thinks she sees him!

And indulging the fond thought,

Clings yet more closely to the senseless turf.

Nor heeds the passenger who walks that way!

PASSION OF THE REDEEMER.

He was oppressed, and he was afflicted, yet he opened not his mouth; He is despised and rejected; a man of sorrows, and acquainted with grief. -He was wounded for our transgressions; he was bruised for our iniquities; the chastisement of our peace was upon him, and with his stripes we are healed.

MURDER OF THE YOUNG PRINCES, RICHARD III.

The tyrannous and bloody act is done;
The most-arch deed of piteous massacre
That ever yet this land was guilty of.
Dighton, and Forrest, whom I did suborn,
To do this piece of ruthless butchery,

Albeit they were flesh'd villians, bloody dogs,
Melting with tenderness and mild compassion;

Wept like two children, in their death's sad story :

O thus, quoth Dighton, lay the gentle babes,

Thus, thus, quoth Forrest, girdling one another
Within their alabaster innocent arms;

Their lips were four red roses on a stalk;

Which in their summer beauty kiss'd each other,

A book of prayers on their pillow lay,

Which once, quoth Forrest, almost changed my mind,
But O, the devil,-there the villain stopp'd:
When Dighton thus told on,-we smother'd
The most replenish'd sweet work of nature,
That from the prime creation e'er she framed,

Hence both are gone with conscience and remorse ;
They could not speak, and so I left them both,
To bear these tidings to the bloody king.

MIRANDA, DEPLORING THE SHIPWRECK.
If by your art, (my dearest father,) you have
Put the wild waters in this roar, allay them;
The sky, it seems, would pour down striking pitch,
But that the sea, mounting to the welkin's cheek,
Dashes the fire out. Oh! I have suffer'd
With those that I saw suffer a brave vessel,
(Who had no doubt, some noble creatures in her,)
Dash'd all to pieces. Oh! the cry did knock
Against my very heart: Poor souls! they perish'd.
Had I been any god of power, I would
Have sunk the sea within the earth, or e'er
It should the good ship so have swallow'd, and
The freighting souls within her.

ANNA, COMMISSERATING LADY RANDOLPH.
Forgive the rashness of your Anna's love:
Urg'd by affection, I have thus presum'd
To interrupt your solitary thoughts;

And warn you of the hours that you neglect,
And lose in sadness.

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Oh happiness! where art thou to be found?

I see thou dwellest not with birth and beauty,
Though grac'd with grandeur, and in wealth array'd,
Nor dost thou, it should seem, with virtue dwell;
Else had this gentle lady miss'd thee not.

BRAKENBURY, COMPASSIONATING CLARENCE.
-God give your grace good rest!

Sorrow breaks seasons, and reposing hours,

Makes the night morning, and the noon-tide night.
Princes have but the titles for their glories,

An outward honour for an inward toil;

And, for unfelt imaginations,

They often feel a world of restless cares

So that, between their titles, and low name,

There's nothing differs, but the outward fame.

LOVE

LOVE, (successful) lights up the countenance into smiles. The forehead is smoothed, and enlarged; the eyebrows are arched : the mouth, a little open, and smiling; the eyes languishing and half-shut, doat upon the beloved object. The countenance sometimes assumes the eager and wishful look of Desire (see Desire), but mixed with an air of satisfaction and repose. The accents are soft, and winning; the tone of voice flattering, persuasive, pathetic, musical, rapturous, as in Joy (see Joy.) The attitude much the same with that of Desire. Occasionally both hands are pressed eagerly to the bosom.

LOVE, (unsuccessful)—adds an air of anxiety and melancholy,

-(see Perplexity, Melancholy, &c.) also Persuasion, Flattery, and the other emotions of mind, of which Love most partakes.

Love, is at once, intense and slack desire;

There hope inflames, while rev'rence cools the fire,
Fear of repulse, bold sense of joy withdraws;
Sighs in each accent; every movement awes,
Soft earnest looks, blush o'er the including face,
And sinewy transport, borrows shade from grace.
LOVE SUCCESSFUL.

CASTALIO IN PRAISE OF

MONIMIA'S BEAUTY.

Who can behold such beauty and be silent!
Oh! I could talk to thee for ever:

For ever fix and gaze on those dear eyes :

For every glance they send, darts through my soul !
FLORIZEL ADMIRING PERDITA.
-What you do,

Still betters what is done. When you speak, sweet,
I'd have you do it ever; when you sing,

I'd have you buy and sell so; so give alms;

Pray so; and, for the ordering of your affairs,

To sing them too; when you do dance, I wish you

A wave o' the sea, that you might ever do

Nothing but that; more still, still so, and own
No other function: each your doing,

So singular in each particular,

Crowns what you are doing in the present deeds,
That all your acts are queens'.

LOVE, (UNSUCCESSFUL.)

If music be the food of love, play on;
Give me an excess of it; that surfeiting,
The appetite may sicken, and to die,-
That strain again ;--it had a dying fall;
O, it came o'er my ear like the sweet south
That breathes upon a bank of violets,
Stealing and giving odour. Enough, no mo re;
"Tis not so sweet now, as it was before,

O spirit of love, how quick and fresh art thou!
That notwithstanding thy capacity
Receiveth as the sea, nought enters there,
Of what validity or pitch soever,
But falls into abatement and low price,
Even in a minute! so full of shapes is fancy,
That it alone is high fantastical.

PHOEBE IN LOVE WITH ROSALIND.
Think not I love him, though I ask for him;
"Tis but a peevish boy:-yet he talks well ;-
But what care I for words? Yet words do well,
When he that speaks them pleases those that hear;

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