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The Greeks are strong, and skilful to their strength,
Fierce to their skill, and to their fierceness valiant.
But I am weaker than a woman's tear,
Tamer than sleep, fonder than ignorance ;
Less valiant than the virgin in the night,
And skilless as unpractis’d infancy:


O Pandarus.' I tell thee, Pandarus-
When I do tell thee, there my hopes lie drown'd,
Reply not, in how many fathorns deep,
They lie indrench’d. I tell thee, I am mad
In Crefid's love. Thou answer'it, she is fair;
Pour'st in the open ulcer of my heart,
Her eyes, her hair, her cheek, her gait, her voice ;
Handlest in thy discourse - that (?) her hand!


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This is the ode :
-Ει 9' εαυτον

Αφηκεν εις Μελεμιον. .
Μεσω» δε καρδιης μεν
Εδυνε και μ' ελυσε.
Ματην d


Τι γαρ βαλωμεθ' έξω, ,

Deinde feipfum projecit in modum teli : mediufque cordis mei
penetravit & me folvit. Frustra itaque habeo scutum : quid enim
muniamur extra, bello intus me exercente. Mr. Cf101, fpeak-
ing of the several translations of the last line but one, adds Now
I will set Shakespear's trandation against them all : Włny zoud
I war, without. To yap Barwedew---For this is the mean-
ing of the phrase, quid hostem petam, vel quid hoftem ferire aggred’ar.
extra; cum hoftis intus est ? &c. see remarks on three plays of
Ben Jonson, p. 28.

(2) Her kand, &c.] In the Midsummer Night's Dream, speaking of a white hand, he says ;

That pure congealed white high Taurus' snow,
Fann'd with the eastern wind, turns to a crow
When thou hold'st up thy hand.

A. 3. S. 6.
I don't know what to make of the words and spirit of sense, nor
do any of the critics satisfy me: the Oxford editor reads,

In whose comparison, all whites are ink,
Writing their own reproach : to whose soft seizure
The cygnet's down is harsh, and spirit of sense
Hard as the palm of ploughman. This thou tell'ít me;
(As true thou tell'it me) when I say, I love her:
But faying thus, instead of oil and balm,
Thou lay'st in every galh that love hath given me
The knife that made it.

Scene V. Success not equal to our Hopes.
The ample proposition that hope makes
In all defigns begun on earth below,
Fails in the promis'd largeness : checks and disasters
Grow in the veins of action, highest rear'd;
As knots, by the conflux of meeting fap.
Infect the found pine, and divert his grain
Tortive and errant from his course of growth,

On Degree.
Take but degree away ; untune that string,
And hark what discord follows; each thing meets
In mere oppugnancy. The bounded waters
Would lift their boloms higher than the fores,
And make a fop of all this folid globe :
Strength would be lord of imbecillity,
And the rude fon would strike his father dead :
Force would be right; or rather, right and wrong
(Between whose endless jar justice (3) refides)

To th' fpirit of fenfe.
Mr. Warburton,

And (spite of fense,) Neither of which appear to me as from the hand of Shakespear: whether by the spirit of sense, he means ike sense of touching, I cannot tell ; that seems the most probable, “to the leizure of her hand the down of the cygnet is harth, and its {pirit of lenje (the soft and delicate sense, its touch gives us ) hard as the ploughman's palm.”

(3) Refdes.] The thought here is beautiful and sublime : Right and Wrong are supposed as enemies, who are perpetually

Would lose their names, and so would justice too.
Then every thing includes itself in power ;
Power into will, will into appetite;
And appetite (an universal wolf,
So doubly feconded with will and power)
Must make perforce an universal prey,
And last, eat up

Conduct in War superior to Aetion.

The still and mental parts,
That do contrive how many hands shall strike,
When fitness calls them on, and know by measure
Of their observant toil the enemies' weight;
Why, this hath not a finger's dignity;
They call this bed-work inapp'ry, closet war:
So that the ram that batters down the wall,
For the great swing and rudeness of his poize,
They place before his hand that made the engine;
Or those, that with the fineness of their souls
By reafon guide his execution.
Adversity the Trial of Man,

Why then, you princes,

with cheeks abalh'd behold our works? And think them shame, which are indeed, nought else But the protractive trials of great fove, To find persistive constancy in man?


at war, between whom Juftice hath her place of residence, and fits as an umpire ; for 'tis the endless jar of right and wrong, that only gives occafion for the interposition of justice. Mr. War.

burton hath, in this place, been too severe on poor Theobald, the sritic (as he calls him), for dropping a light remark, which, were it not defensible, should rather be excus'd than censur'di and introduced an alteration of his own, which an ill-natured remarker might possibly find pleasure in retorting upon him. But as the only business of a commentator is to do justice to his author, it seems to me highly improper to stuff one's observationis with the gall of private animofities.


The fineness of which metal is not found
In fortune's love ; for then, the bold and coward,
The wife and fool, the artist and unread,
The hard and soft, seem all affin'd, and kin ;
But in the wind and tempest of her frown,
Distinction with a broad and pow'rful fan,
Puffing at all, winnows the light away ;
And what hath mass, or matter by itself,
Lies rich in virtue, and unmingled.

Achilles described by Ulysses.

The great Achilles, whom opinion crowns The finew and the fore-hand of our host, Having his ear full of his airy fame, Grows dainty of his worth, and in his tent Lies mocking our designs. With him, Patroclus, Upon a lazy bed, the live long day Breaks fcurril jefts ; And with ridiculous and aukward action (Which, flanderer, he imitation calls) He pageants us. Sometimes, great Agamemnon, Thy topless deputation he puts on; And like a strutting player, (whose conceit Lies in his ham-string, and doth think it rich To hear the wooden dialogue and sound 'Twixt his stretch'd footing and the scaffoldage) Such to-be-pitied, and o'er-wrested seeming, He acts thy greatness in : and when he speaks, 'Tis like a chime a mending ; with terms unsquar'd, Which, from the tongue of roaring Typhon dropt, Would seem hyperboles. At this fuity stuff The large Achilles, on his prest bed lolling, From his deep chest laughs out a loud applause : Cries--excellent !-—'tis Agamemnon just Now play me Neftor-chum, and stroke thy beard, As he, being drest to fome oration. That's doneas near as the extremeft ends


Of parallels ; as like as Vulcan and his wife ;
Yet good Achilles still cries, excellent !
"Tis Nestor right! now play with me, Patroclus,
Arming to answer in a night-alarm:
And then, forfooth, the faint defects of age
Must be the scene of mirth, to cough and spit,
And with a palsy fumbling on his gorget,
Shake in and out the rivet--and at this sport,
Sir Valour dies; cries, “O!-enough, Patroclus-

Or give me ribs of steel, I shall split all
" In pleasure of my spleen”. And, in this fashion,
All our abilities, gifts, natures, shapes,
Severals and generals of grace exact,
Atchievements, plots, orders, preventions,
Excitements to the field, or speech for truce,
Success, or loss, what is, or is not, serves
As stuff for these two to make paradoxes.

SCENE VI. Respect.
I ask, that I might waken reverence,
And bid the cheek be ready with a blush
Modest as morning, when she coldly eyes
The youthful Phæbus.

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The wound of peace is furety,
Surety secure; but modest doubt is callid
'The beacon of the wife ; the tent that searches
To th' bottom of the worst,

SCENE IV. Pleasure and Revenge.

Pleasure and revenge
Have ears more deaf than adders, to the voice
Of any true decision.


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