Brave resolution; I am proud to see So sweet a graft upon a wormwood tree; Whose juice is gall, but yet the fruit most rare. Heywood's Fair Maid of the Exchange.
From his ecliptic line, he shall obey Your beck, and wander from his sphere, ere I From my resolves.
If your resolutions be like mine, We will yet give our sorrows a brave end. Justice is for us, so may fortune be: I'm a bright proof of her inconstancy. But if no god will lend us any aid, Let us be gods and fortune to ourselves.
Men make resolves, and pass into decrees The motions of the mind! with how much ease, In such resolves, doth passion make a flaw, And bring to nothing what was rais'd to law.
There lies no desert in the land of life, For e'en that tract that barrenest doth seem, Labour'd of thee in faith and hope, shall teem With heavenly harvests and rich gatherings rife. Frances Kemble Butler.
Such thoughts as these, an energy, A spirit that will not be shaken
Till frail mortality shall die.
'Tis come, the glorious morn! the second birth Of heaven and earth! awakening nature hears The new creating word, and starts to life, In every heighten'd form, from pain and death For ever free. Thomson's Seasons
Ye vainly wise! ye blind presumptuous! now, Confounded in the dust, adore that power And wisdom oft arraign'd: see now the cause, Why unassuming worth in secret liv'd, And died neglected: why the good man's share In life was gall and bitterness of soul: Why the lone widow and her orphans pin'd In starving solitude; while luxury,
In palaces, lay straining her low thoughts To form unreal wants.
Thomson's Seasons. Now starting up among the living chang'd, Appear'd innumerous the risen dead, Each particle of dust was claim'd: the turf, For ages trod beneath the careless feet Of men, rose, organiz'd in human form.
Pollock's Course of Time. The doors of death were open'd; and in the dark And loathsome vault, and silent charnel-house, Moving, were heard the moulder'd bones that sought Their proper place. Instinctive, every soul Flew to its clayey part: from grass-grown mould,
Willis's Poems. The nameless spirit took its ashes up,
How use doth breed a habit in a man! This shadowy desert, unfrequented woods,
I better brook than flourishing peopled towns: Here I can sit alone, unseen of any, And to the nightingale's complaining notes, Tune my distresses, and record my woes.
Shaks. Two Gentlemen of Verona. Court honours, and your shadows of true joy, That shine like stars, but till a greater light Drown your weak lustre; I abjure your sight; Ev'n from my meditations, and my thoughts I banish your enticing vanities; And closely kept within my study walls, As from a cave of rest, henceforth I'll see And smile, but never taste your misery.
Thy father's poverty has made thee happy; For, though 't is truc, this solitary life Suits not with youth and beauty, O my child! Yet 't is the sweetest guardian to protect Chaste names from court-aspersions.
Dear solitary groves, where peace does dwell! Sweet harbours of pure love and innocence! How willingly could I for ever stay Beneath the shade of your embracing greens, List'ning to the harmony of warbling birds, Tun'd with the gentle murmur of the streams; Upon whose bank, in various livery,
The fragrant offspring of the early year, Their heads, like graceful swans, bent proudly down,
See their own beauties in the crystal flood. Rochester's Valentinian.
Remote from multitude; the world's a school Of wrong, and what proficients swarm around! We must or imitate, or disapprove;
Must list as their accomplices, or foes;
That stains our innocence; this wounds our
From nature's birth, hence, wisdom has been smit
Beaumont and Fletcher's Laws of Candy. With sweet recess, and languisht for the shade.
Was man e'er bless'd with that excess of joy Equal to ours, to us that feel no want Of high court favours, life's licentiousness? Pichards's Messalina.
How miserable a thing is a great man: Take noisy vexing greatness they that please, Give me obscure, and safe, and silent case. Crown's Thestes.
And may at last my weary age Find out the peaceful hermitage, The hairy gown and mossy cell, Where I may sit and rightly spell Of every star that heaven doth show And every herb that sips the dew; Till old experience do attain To something like prophetic strain.
Young's Night Thoughts
What are the falling rills, the pendent shades, The morning bowers, the evening colonnades, But soft recesses for the weary mind To sigh unheard into the passing wind! So the struck deer, in some sequester'd part, Lies down to die (the arrow in his heart :) There hid in shades, and wasting day by day, Inly he bleeds and pants his soul away.
His gardens next your admiration call, On every side you look, behold the wall! No pleasing iatricacies intervene,
No artful wildness to perplex the scene; Grove nods at grove, each alley has a brother, And half the platform just reflects the other; The suffering eye inverted nature sees, Trees cut to statues, statucs thick as trees; With here a fountain, never to be play'd, And there a summer-house that knows no shade. Pope's Moral Essays.
What, what is virtue but repose of mind, A pure ethereal calm, that knows no storm; Above the reach of wild ambition's wind,
Milton's Il Penseroso. Above the passions that this world deforın,
Oft seeks so sweet retired solitude; Where, with her best nurse, contemplation, She plumes her feathers, and lets go her wings, That in the various bustle of resort Were all too ruffled, and sometimes impair'd. Milton's Comus.
And torture man, a proud malignant worm? But here, instead, soft gales of passion play, And gently stir the heart, thereby to form A quicker sense of joy; as breezes stray Across th' enliven'd skies, and make them stil more gay.
Thomson's Castle of Indolence
The best of men have ever lov'd repose: They hate to mingle in the filthy fray, Where the soul sours, and gradual rancour grows, Imbitter'd more from peevish day to day. Even those whom fame has lent her fairest ray, The most renown'd of worthy wights of yore, From a base world at last have stolen away: So Scipio, to the soft Cumaan shore Retiring, tasted joy he never knew before.
Thomson's Castle of Indolence.
Or by the vocal woods and waters lull'd, And lost in lonely musing, in the dream, Confus'd, of careless solitude, where mix, Ten thousand wand'ring images of things, Soothe every gust of passion into peace; All but the swellings of the soften'd heart, That waken, not disturb, the tranquil mind. Thomson's Seasons.
The rage of nations, and the crush of states, Move not the man, who, from the world escap'd, In still retreats, and flow'ry solitudes. To nature's voice attends, from month to month, And day to day, thro' the revolving year; Admiring, sees her in her every shape; Feels all her sweet emotions at his heart; Takes what she liberal gives, nor thinks of more Thomson's Seasons. What joy to hear the tempest howl in vain, And clasp a fearful mistress to my heart! Or lull'd to slumber by the beating rain, Secure and happy, sink at last to rest!
Oh! blest of heaven, whom not the languid songs Of luxury, the syren! nor the bribes
Of sordid wealth, nor all the gaudy spoils Of pageant honour, can seduce to leave Those ever-blooming sweets, which from the store
Buried in smoke, and sleep, and noisome damps, Of nature fair imagination culls
Oft let me wander o'er the dewy fields, Where freshness breathes, and dash the trembling drops
From the bent bush, as through the verdant maze Of sweet-brier hedges, I pursue my walk. Thomson's Seasons. Welcome, ye shades! ye bowery thickets, hail! Ye lofty pines! Ye venerable oaks! Ye ashes wild, resounding o'er the steep! Delicious is your shelter to the soul.
To charm the enliven'd soul!
Akenside's Pleasures of Imagination.
O blest retirement, friend to life's decline, Retreats from care, that never must be mine: How blest is he who crowns, in shades like these, A youth of labour with an age of ease; Who quits a world where strong temptations try, And, since 't is hard to combat, learns to fly! Goldsmith's Deserted Village Could'st thou resign the park and play, content, Thomson's Seasons. For the fair banks of Severn or of Trent:
O, knew he but his happiness, of men 'The happiest he! who, far from public rage, Deep in the vale, with a choice few retir'd, Drinks the pure pleasures of the rural life. Thomson's Seasons.
For those whom wisdom and whom nature charm, To steal themselves from the degenerate crowd, And soar above this little scene of things; T., tread low-thoughted vice beneath their feet; To soothe the throbbing passions into peace; And woo lone quiet in her silent walks.
There might'st thou find some elegant retreat, Some hireling senator's deserted seat;
And stretch thy prospects o'er the smiling land, For less than rent the dungeons of the Strand; There prune thy walks, support thy drooping flow'rs,
Direct thy rivulets and twine thy bow'rs; And, while thy beds a cheap repast afford, Despise the dainties of a venal lord: There ev'ry bush with nature's music rings, There ev'ry breeze bears health upon its wings; On all thy hours security shall smile, And bless thy evening walk and morning toil. Dr. Johnson's London.
The fall of waters, and the song of birds, And hills that echo to the distant herds, Are luxuries excelling all the glare
The world can boast, and her chief favourites share. Cowper's Retirement. The statesman, lawyer, merchant, man of trade, Pants for the refuge of some rural shade, Where, all his long anxieties forgot Amid the charms of a sequester'd spot, Or recollected only to gild o'er,
And add a smile to what was sweet before, He may possess the joys he thinks he sees, . Lay his old age upon the lap of ease, Improve the remnant of his wasted span, And having liv'd a trifler, die a man.
Anticipated rents and bills unpaid, Force many a shining youth into the shade, Not to redeem his time, but his estate, And play the fool, but at a cheaper rate.
The love of nature and the scenes she draws Are nature's dictates. Strange! there should be found
Who self-imprison'd in their proud saloons, Renounce the odours of the open field For the unscented fictions of the loom.
How various his employment, whom the world Calls idle, and who justly in return Esteems that busy world an idler too! Friends, books, a garden, and perhaps his pen, Delightful industry enjoy'd at home, And nature in her cultivated trim Dress'd to his taste, inviting him abroad.
Happiest of men! if the same soil invites A chosen few, companions of his youth, Once fellow-rakes, perhaps, now rural friends; With whom in easy commerce to pursue Nature's free charms, and vie for sylvan fame; A fair ambition, void of strife or guile, Or jealousy, or pain to be outdone.
Armstrong's Art of Preserving Health Ye who amid the feverish world would wear A body free of pain, of cares a mind; Fly the rank city, shun the turbid air; Breathe not the chaos of eternal smoke And volatile corruption, from the dead, The dying, sick'ning, and the living world Exhal'd, to sully heaven's transparent dome With dim mortality.
Armstrong's Art of Preserving Health. Half-way up
He built his house, whence by stealth he caught, Cowper's Task. Among the hills, a glimpse of busy life, That sooth'd, not stirr'd.
O for a lodge in some vast wilderness, Some boundless contiguity to shade, Where rumour of oppression and deceit, Of unsuccessful and successful war Might never reach me more! My ear is pa My soul is sick with ev'ry day's report, Of wrong and outrage with which earth is fill'd. Cowper's Task.
But slighted as it is, and by the great Abandon'd, and, which still I more regret, Infected with the manners and the modes It knew not once, the country wins me still. Cowper's Task.
Ev'n in the stifling bosom of the town, A garden, in which nothing thrives, has charms That soothe the rich possessor; much consol'd That here and there some sprigs of mournful mint, Of night-shade or Valerian, grace the wall He cultivates.
Oh, Psyche, happy in thine ignorance! Couldst thou but shun this heart-tormenting bane; Be but content, nor daringly advance
To meet the bitter hour of threatened pain; Pure spotless dove! seek thy safe nest again Let true affection shun the public eye, And quit the busy circle of the vain,
For there the treacherous snares concealed lie: Oh timely warned escape! to safe retirement fly!. Mrs. Tighe's Psyche. How much they err, who, to their interest blind, Slight the calm peace which from retirement flows! And while they think their fleeting joys to bind, Banish the tranquil bliss which heaven for man Mrs. Tighe's Psyche
So thy fair hand, enamour'd fancy! gleans The treasured pictures of a thousand years; Thy pencil traces on the lover's thoughts Some cottage-home, from towns and toil remow Where love and lore may calm alternate hours, With peace embosom'd in Idalian bowers. Remote from busy life's bewilder'd way, O'er all his heart shall taste and beauty sway. Campbell's Pleasures of Hope
There shall be love, when genial morn appears, Like pensive beauty smiling in her tears, To watch the brightening roses of the sky, And muse on nature with a poet's eye!
Campbell's Pleasures of Hope.
To fly from, need not be to hate mankind; All are not fit with them to stir and toil, Nor is it discontent to keep the mind Deep in its fountain, lest it overboil
In the hot throng where we become the spoil Of our infection, till too late and long We may deplore and struggle with the coil, In wretched interchange of wrong for wrong, 'Midst a contentious world, striving where none are strong.
Is it not better then to be alone, And love earth only for its earthly sake? By the blue rushing of the arrowy Rhone, Or the pure bosom of the musing lake, Which feeds it as a mother who doth make A fair but froward infant her own care, Kissing its cries away as these awake;- Is it not better thus our lives to wear, Than join the crushing crowd, doom'd to inflict Byron's Childe Harold.
Softly the blended light of evening rests Upon thee, lovely stream! Thy gentle tide, Picturing the gorgeous beauty of the sky, Onward, unbroken by the ruffling wind, Majestically flows. O! by thy side,
Far from the tumult and the throng of men And the vain cares that vex poor human life, 'T were happiness to dwell, alone with thee, And the wide solemn grandeur of the scene. Mrs. Ellet's Poems.
I go to seek my own hearth-stone Bosom'd in yon green hills alone; A secret lodge in a pleasant land, Whose groves the frolic fairies plann'd, Where arches green, the livelong day Echo the blackbird's roundelay, And evil men have never trod
A spot that is sacred to thought and God. Ralph Waldo Emerson.
O, when I am safe in my sylvan home, I mock at the pride of Greece and Rome, And when I am stretch'd beneath the pines Where the evening star so holy shines, I laugh at the love and pride of man, At the sophist schools, and the learned clan; For what are they all in their high conceit, When man in the bush with God may meet? Ralph Waldo Emerson.
That have a father kill'd, a mother stain'd, Excitements of my reason, and my blood, And let all sleep? while to my shame, I sce The imminent death of twenty thousand men, That for a fantasy, and trick of fame, Go to their graves like beds; fight for a plot Whereon the numbers cannot try the cause, Which is not tomb enough, and continent, To hide the slain? O, from this time forth, My thoughts be bloody, or be nothing worth! Shaks. Hamlet.
Am I then reveng'd To take him in the purging of his soul, When he is fit and season'd for his passage? Up, sword, and know thou a more horrid bent When he is drunk, asleep, or in his rage; Or in the incestuous pleasures of his bed; At gaming, swearing; or about some act That has no relish of salvation in 't:
Then trip him, that his heels may kick at heaven; And that his soul be as damn'd, and black, As hell, whereto it goes.
To hell, allegiance! vows, to the blackest devil Conscience, and grace, to the profoundest pit! I dare damnation: to this point I stand- That both the worlds I give to negligence, Let come what comes: only I'll be reveng'd. Shaks. Hamlet. Had all his hairs been lives, my great revenge Had stomach for them all. Shaks. Othello.
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