See from the brake the whirring pheasant springs, And mounts exulting on triumphant wings; Short is his joy; he feels the fiery wound, Flutters in blood, and panting beats the ground. Ah! what avail his glossy varying dyes, His purpled crest and scarlet-circled eyes, The vivid green his shining plumes unfold, His painted wings, and breast that flames with gold? Pope's Windsor Forest. Thick around
Thunders the sport of those, who with the gun, And dog impatient bounding at the shot, Worse than the season, desolate the fields; And, adding to the ruins of the year, Distress the footed or the feather'd game.
My rifle is level'd-swift tramplings are heard A rustle of leaves- then, with flight like a bird, His antlers thrown back, and his body in motion, With quick rise and fall like the surge of the
And a moss-couch is spread for my foot on the ground.
Thomson's Seasons. A quick startling whirr now bursts loud on my
Here the rude clamour of the sportman's joy, The gun fast thundering, and the winded horns, Would tempt the muse to sing the rural game: How in his mid-career, the spaniel struck Stiff by the tainted gale, with open nose, Outstretched, and finally sensible, draws full, Fearful, and cautious, on the latent prey; As in the sun the circling covey bask Their varied plumes, and watchful every way Through the rough stubble turn the secret eye. Caught in the meshy snare, in vain they beat Their idle wings, entangled more and more: Nor on the surges of the boundless air,
Though borne triumphant, are they safe, the gun, Glanc'd just, and sudden, from the fowler's eye, O'ertakes their sounding pinions; and again, Immediate brings them from the towering wing, Dead to the ground: or drives them wide dispers'd, Wounded and wheeling various, down the wind. Thomson's Seasons.
The East is now dappled with dawning of light; To the woods for the deer, ere the sun is in sight! The white frost has spread its fresh, silver-like veil,
And if a hoof passes it tells us the tale,
The partridge-the partridge-swift-pinion'd by fear,
Low onward he whizzes, Jupe yelps as he sees, And we dash through the brushwood, to note
I see him his brown-speckled breast is display'd On the branch of yon maple, that edges the glade! My fowling-piece rings, Jupe darts forward so fleet, Ere I load he lays down the dead bird at my feet. Street's Poems.
On a branch the bright oriole dances and sings, With rich crimson bosom, and black glossy wings; And the robin lights warbling, then flutters away, For I harm not God's creatures, so tiny as they.
Near yonder hedge-row where high grass and
The secret hollow shade, my pointers stand. How beautiful they look! with outstretch'a tails With heads immovable and eyes fast fix'd, One fore-leg rais'd and bent, the other firm, Advancing forward, presses on the ground! Convolv'd and flutt'ring on the blood-stain'd earın, The partridge lies:- thus one by one they fall Save what with happier fate escape untouch'd,
The hound in swift gambols darts hither and yon, And o'er the open fields with rapid speed We shoulder our rifles, and rapidly on. To the close shelt'ring covert wing their way Vincent
Full of th' expected sport my heart beats high, And with impatient step I haste to reach The stubbles, where the scatter'd ears afford A sweet repast to the yet heedless game. How my brave dogs o'er the broad furrows bound, Quart'ring their ground exactly. Ah! that point Answers my eager hopes, and fills my breast With joy unspeakable. How close they lie! Whilst to the spot with steady pace I tend. Now from the ground with noisy wing they burst, And dart away. My victim singled out, In his aerial course falls short, nor skims Th' adjoining hedge o'er which the rest unhurt Have pass'd.
In a neat's tongue dried, and a maid not vendible. Shaks. Merchant of Venice. O, my Antonio, I do know of these, That therefore are reputed wise, For saying nothing.
You know my wishes ever yours did meet: If I be silent, 't is no more but fear That I should say too little when I speak. Lady Carew's Mariam.
His modest, bashful nature, and pure innocence, That makes him silent; think you that bright
That buds within his cheeks, was planted there By guilt or shame? no, he has always been So unacquainted with all arts of sin, That but to be suspected, strikes him dumb, With wonder and amazement.
Randolph's Amyntas.
Lo! silence himself is here; Methinks I see the midnight god appear. In all his downy pomp array'd, Behold the rev'rend shade;
An ancient sigh he sits upon,
Whose memory of sound is long since gone, And purposely annihilated for his throne: Beneath two soft transparent clouds do meet; In which he seems to sink his softer feet, A melancholy thought, condens'd to air, Stolen from a lover in despair,
Like a thin mantle, serves to wrap In fluid folds his visionary shape,
Shaks. Merchant of Venice. A wreath of darkness round his head he wears,
The silence often of pure innocence Persuades, when speaking fails.
Out of this silence, yet I pick'd a welcome: And in the modesty of fearful duty
I read as much, as from the rattling tongue Of saucy and audacious eloquence.
Shaks. Midsummer Night's Dream.
Silence is the perfectest herald of joy: I were but little happy, if I could say how much. Shaks. Much Ado about Nothing.
Still-born silence, thou that art Floodgate of the deeper heart; Offspring of a heavenly kind;
Frost o' th' mouth and thaw o' th' mind; Secrecy's confidant, and he That makes religion mystery; Admiration's speaking'st tongue Leave thy desert shades, among Reverend hermits' hallow'd cells, Where retir'd'st devotion dwells; With thy enthusiasms come; Seize this maid, and make her dumb.
Richard Flecknoe's Love's Dominion.
Silence in woman, is like speech in man; Deny 't who car
Jonson's Silent Woman.
Those summer flies that flit so gayly round thee, One mischief enter'd, brings another in:
If shape it might be call'd that shape had none Distinguishable in member, joint, or limb; Or substance might be call'd that shadow scem'd; For each seem'd either; black it stood as night, Fierce as ten furies, terrible as hell,
And shook a dreadful dart; what seem'd his head, The likeness of a kingly crown had on. Satan was now at hand; and from his seat The monster, moving onward, came as fast With horrid strides; hell trembled as he strode. Milton's Paradise Lost.
Earnest toil and strong endeavour
Of a spirit which within Wrestles with familiar evil
And besetting sin.
Men should be what they seem:
Or, those that be not, would they might seem none. Shaks. Othello.
His nature is too noble for the world: He would not flatter Neptune for his trident, Or Jove for's power to thunder: his heart's his
What his breast forges that his tongue must vent; And, being angry, does forget that ever
He heard the name of death.
Shaks, Coriolanus. His words are bonds, his oaths are oracles: His love sincere, his thoughts immaculate; His tears pure messengers sent from his heart; His heart as far from fraud, as heav'n from carth. Shaks. Two Gentlemen of Verona.
Because I lie here at thy feet, The humble booty of thy conqu'ring eyes, And lay my heart all open in thy sight, And tell thee I am thine, and tell thee right; And do not suit my looks, nor clothe my words In other colours than my thoughts do wear, But do thee right in all, thou scornest me As if thou didst not love sincerity. Never did crystal more apparently Present the colour it contain'd within,
Than have these eyes, these tears, this tongue of mine
Bewray'd my heart, and told how much I'm thine. Daniel's Arcadia.
For my own part, I consider
Nature without apparel; without disguising Of custom or compliment; I give thoughts Words, and words truth, and truth boldness. She whose
Honest freeness makes it her virtue to
Speak what she thinks, will make it her necessity To think what is good.
I cannot clothe my thoughts, and just defence In such an abject phrase, but 't will appear Equal, if not above my low condition. I need no bombast language, stol'n from such, As make nobility from prodigious terms The hearers understand not; I bring with me No wealth to boast of; neither can I number Uncertain fortune's favours with my merits: I dare not force affection, or presume To ceusure her discretion that looks on me As a weak man, and not her fancy'd idol.
Massinger's Bondman. God weighs the heart; whom we can never move By outward actions, without inward love. Watkins.
Security, and quiet sleeps; murder's not heard of, Treachery is a stranger there; they enjoy Their friends and loves without ravishment; They are all equal, ev'ry one's a prince, And rules himself; they speak not with their eyes, Or brows, but with the tongue, and that too dwells In the heart. Sicily and Naples.
Sincerity's my chief delight, The darling pleasure of the mind; O that I could to her invite, All the whole race of human kind; Take her, mortals, she's worth more Than all your glory, all your fame, Than all your glittering boasted store, Than all the things that you can name. She'll with her bring a joy divine, All that's good, and all that's fine.
O fie upon this single-life! forego it.
These various organs show the place
Webster's Duchess of Malfy. Where friendship lov'd, where passion glow'd, Where veneration grew in grace,
Fair Hermia, question your desires, Know of your youth, examine well your blood, Whether, if you yield not to your father's choice,
You can endure the livery of a nun; For aye to be in shady cloister mew'd, To live a barren sister all your life,
Chanting faint hymns to the cold fruitless moon. Thrice blessed they that master so their blood, To undergo such maiden pilgrimage: But earlier happy is the rose distill'd, Than that which withering on the virgin thorn, Grows, lives, and dies, in single blessedness.
Shaks. Midsummer Night's Dream.
Her bosom was a soft retreat
For love, and love alone,
And yet her heart had never beat To love's delicious tone;
It dwelt within its circle free From tender thoughts like these, Waiting the little deity
As the blossom waits the breeze, Before it throws it leaves apart, And trembles like a love-touch'd heart.
Where justice sway'd, where man was proud- Whence wit its slippery sallies threw On vanity, thereby defeated; Where hope's imaginary view
Of things to come (fond fool) is seated; Where circumspection made us fear, 'Mid gleams of joy some danger near. Dr. Forster
Old wall of man's most noble part, While now I trace with trembling hand Thy sentiments, how oft I start, Dismay'd at such a jarring band! Man, with discordant frenzy fraught, Seems either madman, fool, or knave; To try to live is all he's taught — To 'scape her foot who nought doth save In life's proud race;-(unknown our goal) To strive against a kindred soul. Dr. Forster And canst thou teach to future man The way his evils to repair- Say, O memento,-of the span Of mortal life? for if the care
Mrs. Welby. Of truth to science be not given, (From whom no treachery can sever,) There's no dependence under heaven That error may not reign for ever. May future heads more learning cull From thee when my own head's a skull. Dr. Forster
Remove yon skull from out the scatter'd heaps; Is that a temple where a God may dwell? Why ev'n the worm at last disdains her shatter'd cell!
Look on its broken arch, its ruin'd wall, Its chambers desolate, and portals foul: Yes, this was once ambition's airy hall, The dome of thought, the palace of the soul: Behold through cach lacklustre, eyeless hole, The gay recess of wisdom and of wit, And passion's host, that never brook'd control: Can all, saint, sagc, or sophist ever writ, People this lonely tower, this tenement refit? Byron's Childe Harold.
O empty vault of former glory! Where'er thou wert in time of old, Thy surface tells thy living story, Though now so hollow, dead, and cold; For in thy form is yet descried The traces left of young desire; The painter's art, the statesman's pride, The muse's song, the poet's fire; But these, forsooth, now seem to be Mere lumps on thy periphery.
And therein were a thousand tongues empight Of sundry kinds and sundry quality; Some were of dogs, that barked day and night, And some of cats, that wrawling still did cry, And some of bears, that groan'd continually, And some of tigers, that did seem to gren, And snarl at all that ever passed by; But most of them were tongues of mortal men, Which spake reproachfully, not caring where nor when.
And them amongst were mingled, here and there, The tongues of serpents with three-forked stings, That spat out poison and gore, bloody gere, At all who came within his ra:cnings, And spake licentious words and hateful things Of good and bad alike, of low and high; Nor Kesars spared he a whit nor kings, But either blotted them with infamy, Or bit them with his baneful teeth of injury. Spenser's Fairy Queen
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