« ForrigeFortsæt »
The brainless stripling, who expelled the town, Damned the stiff college, and pedantic gown.—Tickell.
Busy brain! thy work is ever
On! on! on!
On! on! on!
And thy reign,
WHERE all the bravery that eye can see,
Let not old age disgrace my high desire,
O heavenly soul in human shape contained; Old wood inflamed doth yield the bravest fire, When younger doth in smoke its virtue spend.
Sir. P. Sidney. Morat's too insolent, too much a brave, His courage to his envy is a slave.
The ills of love, not those of fate I fear,
The brave do never shun the light;
Joanna Baillie. —The truly brave, When they behold the brave oppress’d with odds, Are touch'd with a desire to shield or save.
A mourner o'er the humblest grave;
And triumph weeps above the brave.—Byron.
BREATH-BREATHING. KNEELING before this ruin of sweet life, And breathing to this breathless excellence The incense of a vow—a holy vow. Shakspere.
I have toward heaven to breathe a secret vow,
His altar breathes Ambrosial odours and ambrosial flowers.
No man has more contempt than I for breath;
Prior. The princely dome, the column and the arch, The sculptur'd marble, and the breathing gold.
A play there is my lord some ten words long,
As 'tis a greater mystery, in the art
For brevity is very good,
Life's brevity is nature's kindest boon:
Made mortal, that immortal life may come-
Fate's welcome summers calls the wanderer home! Yet, dost thou sigh o'er youth's beclouded noon?
Alas! woes wait on all who further roam! Fresh tempests brood, and heaven's blue face deform, But he who soundly sleeps escapes the storm.
What! shall one of us,
1.-Hark, how I'll bribe thee.
1.--Not with fond shekels of the tested gold,
Shakspere. There's joy when to wild will you laws prescribe; When you bid fortune carry back her bribe.
Dryden. Nor less may Jupiter to gold ascribe, When he turned himself into a bribe. Waller.
No, I'll not trust the honour of a man:
Sweet day so cool, so calm, so bright,
The bridal of the earth and sky; Sweet dews shall weep thy fall to-night,
For thou must die.
Knit up thy spirit! Men should go faced in þrass In these high unabashed bridal times. Observe thou, when the virgin wife dawns forth · Like blushing morning! Ha! look where she comes,
In sweetness, like the hawthorn buds unblown; While the proud bridegroom, like the month of May, Steps in the midst of flowers.
Procter. They tell me, gentle lady, that they deck thee for a
bride, That the wreath is woven for thy hair, thy bridegroom
by thy side; And I think I hear thy father's sigh, thy mother's
calmer tone, As they give thee to another's arms—their beautiful, I never saw a bridal but my eyelid hath been wet, And it always seemed to me as though a joyous crowd
were met; To see the saddest sight of all, a gay and girlish
thing, Lay aside her maiden gladness—for a name—and for a ring
G. M. Fitzgerald.
Milton. Is she not brighter than a summer's morn, When all the heaven is streaked with dappled fire, And flecked with blushes like a rifled maid. Lee.
The purple morning rising with the year,