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'T's pride, rank pride, and haughtiness of soul; I think the Romans call it stoicism.

Cato. Act i. Sc. 4.

Were you with these, my prince, you'd soon forget
The pale, unripened beauties of the north.

Beauty soon grows familiar to the lover,
Fades in his eye, and palls upon the sense.
The virtuous Marcia towers above her sex.
My voice is still for war.

Gods! can a Roman senate long debate
Which of the two to choose, slavery or death?

Ibid.

Ibid.

Act ii. Sc. 1.

Great Pompey's shade complains that we are slow,
And Scipio's ghost walks unaveng'd amongst us!
A day, an hour, of virtuous liberty
Is worth a whole eternity in bondage.

Ibid.

Ibid.

The woman that deliberates is lost.

Act iv. Sc. 1.

Curse all his virtues! they've undone his country. Sc. 4.

What a pity is it

That we can die but once to save our country!
When vice prevails, and impious men bear sway,
The post of honour is a private station.1

It must be so, Plato, thou reasonest well!
Else whence this pleasing hope, this fond desire,
This longing after immortality?

Or whence this secret dread and inward horror
Of falling into naught? Why shrinks the soul
Back on herself, and startles at destruction?
"T is the divinity that stirs within us;
"T is Heaven itself that points out an hereafter,

1 Give me. kind Heaven, a private station,

A mind serene for contemplation!

Title and profit I resign;

The post of honour shall be mine.

Ibid.

Ibid.

GAY: Fables, Part ii. The Vulture, the Sparrow, and other Birds.

And intimates eternity to man.

Eternity! thou pleasing, dreadful thought!

Cato. Act v. Sc. 1.

I'm weary of conjectures, this must end 'em.
Thus am I doubly armed: my death and life,
My bane and antidote, are both before me:
This in a moment brings me to an end;
But this informs me I shall never die.
The soul, secured in her existence, smiles
At the drawn dagger, and defies its point.
The stars shall fade away, the sun himself
Grow dim with age, and Nature sink in years;
But thou shalt flourish in immortal youth,1
Unhurt amidst the war of elements,
The wrecks of matter, and the crush of worlds.
Sweet are the slumbers of the virtuous man.

From hence, let fierce contending nations know
What dire effects from civil discord flow.

For wheresoe'er I turn my ravish'd eyes,
Gay gilded scenes and shining prospects rise,
Poetic fields encompass me around,

And still I seem to tread on classic ground.2

Ibid.

Act v. Sc. 4.

Ibid.

A Letter from Italy.

Unbounded courage and compassion join'd,
Tempering each other in the victor's mind,
Alternately proclaim him good and great,
And make the hero and the man complete.

The Campaign. Line 219.

And, pleased the Almighty's orders to perform,
Rides in the whirlwind and directs the storm.3 Line 291.

1 Smiling always with a never fading serenity of countenance, and flourishing in an immortal youth. ISAAC BARROW (1630-1677): Duty of Thanksgiving, Works, vol. i. p. 66.

2 Malone states that this was the first time the phrase "classic ground," since so common, was ever used.

This line is frequently ascribed to Pope, as it is found in the "Dunciad," book iii. line 264.

And those that paint them truest praise them most.1

The spacious firmament on high,
With all the blue ethereal sky,

The Campaign. Last line.

And spangled heavens, a shining frame,
Their great Original proclaim.

Soon as the evening shades prevail,
The moon takes up the wondrous tale,
And nightly to the listening earth
Repeats the story of her birth;

Ode.

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The hand that made us is divine.

Should the whole frame of Nature round him break,
In ruin and confusion hurled,

He, unconcerned, would hear the mighty crack,
And stand secure amidst a falling world.

Ibid.

Horace. Ode iii. Book iii.

In all thy humours, whether grave or mellow,
Thou 'rt such a touchy, testy, pleasant fellow,
Hast so much wit and mirth and spleen about thee,
There is no living with thee, nor without thee.2

Much may be said on both sides.8

The Lord my pasture shall prepare,
And feed me with a shepherd's care;
His presence shall my wants supply,
And guard me with a watchful eye.

Spectator. No. 68.

No. 122.

Round-heads and wooden-shoes are standing jokes.

No. 444.

Prologue to The Drummer.

1 He best can paint them who shall feel them most. Abelard, last line.

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2 A translation of Martial, xii. 47, who imitated Ovid, Amores iii. 11, 39. 3 Much may be said on both sides. - FIELDING: The Covent Garden Tragedy, act i. sc. 8.

NICHOLAS ROWE. 1673-1718.

As if Misfortune made the throne her seat,
And none could be unhappy but the great.1

The Fair Penitent. Prologue.

At length the morn and cold indifference came.2

Is she not more than painting can express,
Or youthful poets fancy when they love?
Is this that haughty gallant, gay Lothario?

Act i. Sc. 1.

Act iii. Sc. 1.

Act v. Sc. i.

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1 None think the great unhappy, but the great.-YOUNG: The Love of Fame, satire 1, line 238.

2 But with the morning cool reflection came.- SCOTT: Chronicles of the Canongate, chap. iv.

Scott also quotes it in his notes to "The Monastery," chap. iii. note 11; and with "calm" substituted for "cool in "The Antiquary," chap. v.; and with "repentance "for "reflection" in "Rob Roy," chap. xii.

3 See Herbert, page 205.

But, children, you should never let
Such angry passions rise;

Your little hands were never made

To tear each other's eyes.

Birds in their little nests agree;

And 't is a shameful sight

When children of one family

Divine Songs. Song xvi.

Fall out, and chide, and fight.

How doth the little busy bee

Improve each shining hour,
And gather honey all the day

From every opening flower!

For Satan finds some mischief still
For idle hands to do.

In books, or work, or healthful play.

I have been there, and still would go;
"T is like a little heaven below.

Hush, my dear, lie still and slumber!

Holy angels guard thy bed!
Heavenly blessings without number
Gently falling on thy head.

Song xvii.

Song xx.

Ibid.

Ibid.

Song xxviii.

A Cradle Hymn.

"T is the voice of the sluggard; I heard him complain, "You have wak'd me too soon, I must slumber again.”

Lord, in the morning thou shalt hear

My voice ascending high.

The Sluggard.

Psalm v.

From all who dwell below the skies

Let the Creator's praise arise;
Let the Redeemer's name be sung
Through every land, by every tongue.

Psalm cxvii.

Fly, like a youthful hart or roe,
Over the hills where spices grow.

Hymns and Spiritual Songs. Book i. Hymn 79.

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