Brutus.-Hear me, for I will speak.
Must I give way, and room to your rash choler?
Shall I be frighted when a madman stares?
Cassius. O gods! ye gods! must I endure all this?
Brutus. All this! ay more. Fret till your proud
heart break;
Go show your slave how choleric you are,
And make your bondsman tremble. Must I budge?
Must I observe you? must I stand and crouch
Under your testy humour? By the gods,
You shall digest the venom of your spleen,
Though it do split you: for, from this day forth,
I'll use you for my mirth, yea for my laughter,
When you are waspish.
Thus while he spake, each passion dimm'd his
face,
Thrice changed with pale ire, envy, and despair;
Which marr'd his borrow'd visage, and betray'd
Him counterfeit.
The elephant is never won with anger;
Nor must that man, who would reclaim a lion,
Take him by the teeth.
Dryden's All for Love.
Hast thou compacted for a lease of years
With hell, that thus thou ventur'st to provoke me?
Dryden's Duke of Guise.
Shaks. Julius Cæsar. When anger rushes, unrestrain'd, to action,
Like a hot steed, it stumbles in its way:
The man of thought strikes deepest, and strikes
safest. Savage's Sir Thomas Overbury.
My indignation, like th' imprison'd fire,
Pent in the troubled breast of glowing Etna,
Burnt deep and silent.
I am burn'd up with inflaming wrath;
A rage, whose heat hath this condition,
That nothing can allay, nothing but blood,
The blood, and dearest valued blood, of France.
Shaks. King John.
O that my tongue were in the thunder's mouth!
Then with a passion would I shake the world.
Shaks. King John.
Away to heaven, respective lenity,
And fire-eyed fury be my conduct now.
Shaks. Romeo and Juliet.
This strained passion doth you wrong, my lord:
Sweet earl, divorce not wisdom from your honour.
Shaks. Henry IV.
I then, all smarting with my wounds being cold,
To be so pester'd with a popinjay,
Out of my grief and my impatience,
Answer'd neglectingly, I know not what
Thomson's Coriolanus.
"T is all in vain, this rage that tears thy bosom ;
Like a poor bird that flutters in its cage,
Thou beat'st thyself to death.
Rowe's Jane Shore.
Senseless, and deform'd,
Convulsive anger storms at large; or pale
And silent, settles into full revenge.
Thomson's Seasons.
Then flash'd the living lightning from her eyes,
And screams of horror rend th' affrighted skies;
Not louder shrieks to pitying heaven are cast,
Shaks. Henry IV. When husbands, or when lap-dogs, breathe their
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Or when rich china vessels, fallen from high,
In glitt'ring dust and painted fragments lie!
Pope's Rape of the Lock.
Not youthful kings in battle seized alive,
Not scornful virgins who their charms survive,
Not ardent lovers robb'd of all their bliss,
Not ancient ladies when refused a kiss,
Not tyrants fierce that unrepenting die,
Not Cynthia when her mantua's pinn'd awry,
E'er felt such rage.
Pope's Rape of the Lock.
Curse on the man that calls Rameses friend,
And keeps his temper at a tale like this;
When rage and rancour are the proper virtues,
And loss of reason is the mark of men.
For pale and trembling anger rushes in,
With faltering speech, and eyes that wildly stare
The ocean, lash'd to fury loud,
Fierce as the tiger, madder than the seas,
Desperate, and arm'd with more than human Its high wave mingling with the cloud,
Is peaceful, sweet serenity,
Armstrong's Art of Preserving Health. To anger's dark and stormy sea.
Next anger rush'd, his eyes on fire,
In lightnings own'd his secret stings,
In one rude clash he struck the lyre,
And swept with hurried hand the strings.
Collins's Ode to the Passions.
Out upon the fool! go speak thy comforts
To spirits tame and abject as thyself:
They make me mad.
In genial spring, beneath the quiv'ring shade,
Where cooling vapours breathe along the mead,
The patient fisher takes his silent stand,
Intent, his angle trembling in his hand:
Baillie's Ethwald. With looks unmoved, he hopes the scaly breed,
And eyes the dancing cork, and bending reed.
Pope's Windsor Forest.
His eye-brow dark, and eye of fire,
Showed spirit proud, and prompt to ire;
Yet lines of thought upon his cheek
Did deep design and counsel speak.
And her brow cleared, but not her troubled eye:
The wind was down, but still the sea ran high.
Byron's Don Juan.
She ceased, and turn'a upon her pillow; pale
She lay, her dark eyes flashing through their tears,
Like skies that rain and lighten; as a veil,
Waved and o'ershading her wan cheek, appears
Her streaming hair, the black curls strive, but fail,
To hide the glossy shoulder, which uprears
Its snow through all; her soft lips lie apart,
And louder than her breathing beats her heart.
Byron's Don Juan.
Loud complaint, however angrily
It shakes its phrase, is little to be feared,
And less distrusted.
Patience!-Hence-that word was made
For brutes of burthen, not for birds of prey;
Preach it to mortals of a dust like thine,-
The wildest ills that darken life,
Are rapture to the bosom's strife;
The tempest, in its blackest forn.
Is beauty to the bosom's storm;
I in these flowery meads would be;
These crystal streams should solace me;
To whose harmonious, bubbling noise
I with my angle would rejoice.
And angle on, and beg to have
A quiet passage to a welcome grove.
Oh! lone and lovely haunts are thine,
Soft, soft the river flows,
Wearing the shadow of thy line,
The gloom of alder boughs.
That brutes have reason; sure 'tis something more, 'Tis heaven directs, and stratagems inspires, Beyond the short extent of human thought.
ANTIPATHY-ANTIQUARY-APPAREL.
Some men there are, love not a gaping pig;
Some that are mad, if they behold a cat.
Masterless passion sways it to the mood,
Of what it likes or loathes.
'Tis found: and, O his happy lot!
'Tis bought, lock'd up, and lies forgot.
He had a routh o' auld nick-nackets,
Rusty airn caps, and jinglin jackets;
Would held the Loudons three in tackets
A towmond gude;
Shaks. Merchant of Venice. And parritch-pats, and auld saut-backets,
Wears out more apparel than the man.
Shaks. Much ado about nothing.
We will unto your father's.
Ev'n in these honest, mean habiliments:
I must rev'rence and prefer the precedent
Times before these, which consum'd their wits in Our purses shall be proud, our garments poor;
Experiments; and 'twas a virtuous
Emulation amongst them, that nothing
Which should profit posterity, should perish.
Shakerly Marmyon's Antiquary.
They are the
Registers, the chronicles of the age
They were made in, and speak the truth of history,
Better than a hundred of your printed
Communications.
Shakerly Marmyon's Antiquary.
A copper plate, with almanacs
Engrav'd upon't; with other nacks
Of Booker's, Lilly's, Sarah Jimmer's,
And blank schemes to discover nimmers;
A moon dial, with Napier's bones,
And sev'ral constellation stones.
For 't is the mind that makes the body rich:
And as the sun breaks through the darkest clouds,
So honour peereth in the meanest habit.
What! is the jay more precious than the lark,
Because his feathers are more beautiful?
Or is the adder better than the eel,
Because his painted skin contents the eye?
O no, good Kate; neither art thou the worse
For this poor furniture, and mean array.
Shaks. Taming of a Shrew.
Thy gown? why, ay:-come, tailor, let us see 't
O mercy, God! what masking stuff is here?
What's this? a sleeve? 'tis like a demi-cannon:
What! up and down, carv'd like an apple-tart?
Here's snip and nip, and cut, and slish, and slash,
Like to a censer in a barber's shop:-
Butler's Hudibras. Why what, a'devil's name, tailor, call'st thou this?
Shaks. Taming of a Shrew.
What toil did honest Curio take,
What strict inquiries did he make,
To get one medal wanting yet,
And perfect all his Roman set!
My dukedom to a beggarly denier,
I do mistake my person all this while.
Upon my life, she finds although I cannot,
Myself to be a marvellous proper man.
I'll be at charges for a looking-glass;
And entertain a score or two of tailors,
To study fashions to adorn my body,
Since I am crept in favour with myself,
I will maintain it with some little cost.
Shaks. Richard III.
Sure this gay fresh suit, as seems to me,
Hangs like green ivy on a rotten tree.
Daniel's Hymen's Triumph.
I am the same, without all diff'rence; when
You saw me last, I was as rich, as good;
Have no additions since of name, or blood;
Only because I wore a thread-bare suit,
I was not worthy of a poor salute.
A few good clothes put on with small ado,
Purchase your knowledge and your kindred too.
Heywood's Royal King.
Nor yet too brightly strive to blaze,
By stealing all the rainbow rays;
Your gaudy, artificial fly
Will only take the younger fry.
Who has not seen, and seeing mourn'd,
And mourning smiled, and smiling scorn'd,
In wild ambition flaming down,
Some comet from a country town?
See, see her in her motley hues ;
Funereal blacks and brimstone blues,
And lurid green, and bonfire red,
At once their varied radiance shed;
And skin deep gold, and would be pearls,
And oh those heaps of corkscrew curls,
O. W. Holmes.
From little matters let us pass to less,
And lightly touch the mysteries of dress;
The outward forms the inner man reveal.
We guess the pulp before we eat the peel.
One single precept might the whole condense-
Be sure your tailor is a man of sense;
But add a little care, or decent pride,
And always err upon the sober side.
Wear seemly gloves; not black, nor yet too light;
And least of all the pair that once was white.
Have a good hat; the secret of your looks
Lies with the beaver in Canadian brooks.
Virtue may flourish in an old cravat,
But man and nature scorn the shocking hat.
Be shy of breastpins; plain, well-ironed, white,
With small pearl buttons,-two of them in sight,-
Is always genuine, while your gems may pass,
Though real diamonds, for ignoble glass.
And this one maxim is a standing rule,— Men are not what they seem.
Why should the sacred character of virtue
Shine on a villain's countenance? Ye powers!
Why fix'd you not a brand on treason's front,
That we might know t' avoid perfidious mortals.
Dennis's Iphigenia.
Thy plain and open nature sees mankind
But in appearances, not what they are.
Seems, madam! nay, it is; I know not seems,
'Tis not alone my inky cloak, good mother,
Nor customary suits of solemn black,
Nor windy suspiration of forc'd breath,
No, nor the fruitful river in the eye,
Nor the dejected 'haviour of the visage,
Together with all forms, modes, shows of grief,
That can denote me truly; These, indeed, seem,
For they are actions that a man might play:
But I have that within, which passeth show;
These, but the trappings and the suits of woe.
Shaks. Hamlet.
Mislike me not for my complexion,—
The shadow'd livery of the burnish'd sun,
To whom I am a neighbour, and near bred.
Shaks. Merchant of Venice.
You have slander'd nature in my form;
Which, howsoever rude exteriorly,
Is yet the cover of a fairer mind
Than to be butcher of an innocent child.
There is a fair behaviour in thee, captain;
And though that nature with a beauteous wall
Doth oft close in pollution, yet of thee
I will believe, thou hast a mind that suits
With this thy fair and outward character.
Shaks. Twelfth Night.
He has, I know not what,
Of greatness in his looks, and of high fate
That almost awes me.
Dryden's Marriage a la Mode.
That gloomy outside, like a rusty chest,
Contains the shining treasure of a soul
Resolved and brave.
Dryden's Don Sebastian. Appearances to save, his only care; So things seem right, no matter what they are. Churchill's Rosciad
APPLAUSE-ARCHITECTURE-ARBOUR-ARGUMENT.
They form'd a very nymph-like looking crew,
Which might have call'd Diana's chorus "Cousin,"
As far as outward show may correspond;
I won't be bail for anything beyond.
No sooner had th' Almighty ceased, but all
The multitude of angels, with a shout
Loud as from numbers without number, sweet
As from blest voices, uttering joy, heaven rung
Byron's Don Juan. With jubilee, and loud hosannahs fill'd
Th' eternal regions.
The deepest ice that ever froze
Can only o'er the surface close;
The living stream lies quick below,
And flows, and cannot cease to flow.
One slanting up his face did wink
The salt-rheum to the eyelid's brink,
As if to think-or-not to think!
Some trod out stealthily and slow,
As if the sun would fall in snow,
If they walked to, instead of fro.
'Tis not the fairest form that holds
The mildest, purest soul within;
'Tis not the richest plant that folds
The sweetest breath of fragrance in.
Within the oyster's shell uncouth
The purest pearl may hide :-
Trust me you'll find a heart of truth
Milton's Paradise Lost. City, country, all,
Is in gay triumph tempest toss'd,
Byron. I scarce could press along. The trumpet's voice
Is lost in loud repeated shouts, that raise
Then, bursting broad, the boundless shout to
From many a thousand hearts ecstatic sprung.
Thomson's Liberty
Then give a general shout, and send scared echo
Even to the frighted cars of tyranny.
At which the universal host up sent
A shout that tore hell's concave, and beyond
Frighted the reign of chaos and old night.
Milton's Paradise Lost.
The hollow abyss
Heard far and wide, and all the host of hell
With deaf'ning shout return'd them loud acclaim.
Milton's Paradise Lost.
He said, and as the sound of waters deep,
Hoarse murmur echoed to his words applause
Through the infinite host.
Be calm in arguing: For fierceness makes
Error a fault, and truth discourtesy.
Why should I feel another man's mistakes
More than his sicknesses or poverty?
In love I should; but anger is not love,
Milton's Paradise Lost. Nor wisdom neither; therefore gently move.
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