Why what a wasp-stung and impatient fool
Art thou, to break into this woman's mood;
Tying thine ear to no tongue but thine own!

Shaks. Henry IV. Part I.
These haughty words of hers

Have batter'd me like roaring cannon-shot,
And made me almost yield upon my knees.
Shaks. Henry IV. Part I.
O, he's as tedious

As is a tired horse, or railing wife;
Worse than a smoky house:- - I had rather live
With cheese and garlic, in a wind-mill, far,
Than feed on cates, and have him talk to me,
In any summer-house in Christendom.
Shaks. Henry IV. Part. I.

When he speaks,

The air, a charter'd libertine, is still,
And the mute wonder lurketh in men's ears,
To steal his sweet and honied sentences.

Shaks. Henry IV. Part I.

The fool hath planted in his memory
An army of good words: and I do know
A many fools, that stand in bitter place,
Garnish'd like him, that for a tricky word
Defy the matter.

Shaks. Merchant of Venice.

Tut, tut, my lord, we will not stand to prate,
Talkers are no good doers; be assur'd,
We go to use our hands, and not our tongues.
Shaks. Richard III.

I hold my peace, sir? No;
No, I will speak as liberal as the air;
Let heaven, and men, and devils, let them all,
All, all cry shame against me, yet I'll speak.

Shaks. Othello.

My tongue will tell the anger of my heart; Or else my heart, concealing it, will break: And, rather than it shall, I will be free, Even to the uttermost, as I please, in words.

Shakspeare.

Think you a little din can daunt mine ears?
Have I not in my time heard lions roar?
Have I not heard great ordnance in the field,
And heaven's artillery thunder in the skies?
And do you tell me of a woman's tongue
That gives not half so great a blow to the ear,
As will a chestnut in a farmer's fire?

Shaks. Taming the Shrew
A flourish, trumpets!-strike alarum, drums!
Let not the heavens hear these tell-tale women
Rail on the lord's anointed: strike, I say.
Shaks. Richard III.

It was the copy of our conferenc
In bed, he slept not for my urging it;
At board, he fed not for my urging it:
Alone, it was the subject of my theme;
In company, I often glanc'd it;
Still did I tell him it was vile and bad.

Shaks. Comedy of Errors

But still his tongue ran on, the less
Of weight it bore, with greater case;
And with its everlasting clack,
Set all men's ears upon the rack.

Butler's Hudibras

And made the stoutest yield to mercy,
When he engag'd in controversy,
Not by the force of carnal reason,
But indefatigable teasing;
With volleys of eternal babble,
And clamour more unanswerable.

Butler's Hudibras.
In various talk the instructive hours they pass'd.
Who gave the ball, or paid the visit last;
One speaks the glory of the British queen,
And one describes a charming Indian screen
A third interprets motions, looks, and eyes.
At every word a reputation dies.
Snuff, or the fan, supply each pause of chat
With singing, laughing, ogling, and all that
Pope

Nor did we fail to see within ourselves
What need there is to be reserved in speech,
And temper all our thoughts with charity.

Wordsworth.

By heaven, I had rather coin my heart,

And drop my blood for drachmas, than to wring From the hard hands of peasants their vile trash, By any indirection.

cadenc'd in the talking,

out bars

No more tribute.

Shaks. Cymbeline.

A moderation keep;

Kings ought to shear, not skin their sheep.

Herrick.

The law takes measure of us all for clothes,
Diets us all, and in the sight of all,
To keep us from all private leagues with wealth.
Crown's Regulus.

What is 't to us, if taxes rise or fall,
Thanks to our fortune, we pay none at all.
Let muckworms who in dirty acres deal,
Lament those hardships which we cannot feel,
His grace who smarts, may bellow if he please,
But must I bellow too, who sit at ease?
By custom safe, the poets' numbers flow,
Free as the light and air some years ago.
No statesman e'er will find it worth his pains
To tax our labours, and excise our brains.
Burthens like these will earthly buildings bear,
No tributes laid on castles in the air.

Churchill.

With that adown, out of her crystal eyne,
Few trickling tears she softly forth let fall,
That like two orient pearls did purely shine
Upon her snowy cheek.

Spenser's Fairy Queen.
Trust not those cunning waters of his eyes,
For villany is not without such rheum;
And he, long traded in it, makes it seem
Like rivers of remorse and innocency.

Shaks. King John. Let me wipe off this honourable dew, That silently doth progress on thy cheeks. Shaks. King John. I am not prone to weeping, as our sex Commonly are; the want of which vain dew, Perchance shall dry your pities: but I have. That honourable grief lodg'd here, which burns Worse than tears drown.

Those eyes of thine froin mine have drawn sult

tears,

Stained their aspects with sore childish drops. Shaks. Richard III

I did not think to shed a tear

In all my miseries; but thou hast forc'd me
Out of thy honest truth to play the woman.
Shaks. Henry VIII.

What I should say,
My tears gainsay: for every word I speak,
Ye see, I drink the water of mine eyes.
Shaks. Henry VI.

Part III. To weep, is to make less the depth of grief: Tears, then, for babes; blows, and revenge for me! Shaks. Henry VI. Part III.

Then fresh tears

Stood on her cheeks; as doth the honey-dew
Upon a gather'd lily almost wither'd.

Shaks. Titus Andronicus.
The pretty and sweet manner of it forc'd
Those waters from me which I would have stopp'd;
But I had not so much of man in me,
But all my mother came into mine
gave me up to tears.

Shaks. Winter's Tale.

And

Friends, I owe more tears,

To this dead man, than you shall see me pay.
Shaks. Julius Cæsar.

Thy heart is big! get thee apart and weep.
Passion, I see, is catching; for mine eyes,
Seeing those beads of sorrow stand in thine,
Began to water.

eyes,

Shaks. Henry V.

Shaks. Julius Cæsar.

Shaks. Tempest. Yet on she moves, now stands and eyes thee fix'd, About t' have spoke, but now, with head declin'd,

weeping,

And words suppress'd seem into tears dissolv'd, Wetting the borders of her silken veil.

Milton's Sampson Agonistes. Compassion quell'd

His best of man, and gave him up to tears

My manly eyes did scorn an humbler tear;

And what these sorrows could not thence exhale,

weeping.

Shaks. Richard III. |

Congreve's Mourning Brias