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Here the tongue warrior lies! disabled now, Disarm'd, dishonour'd, like a wretch that's gagg'd And cannot tell his ail to passers-by.

Here are the prude severe, and gay coquette; The sober widow, and the young green virgin. Cropp'd like a rose before it is fully blown,

Great man of language; whence this mighty Or half its worth disclos'd. Strange medley here!

change?

This dumb despair, and drooping of the head?
Though strong persuasion hung upon thy lip,
And sly insinuation's softer arts

In ambush lay about thy flowing tongue;
Alas! how chop-fall'n now! thick mists and silence
Rest, like a weary cloud, upon thy breast
Unceasing. Ah! where is the lifted arm,
The strength of action, and the force of words,
The well-turn'd period, and the well-tun'd verse,
With all the lesser ornaments of phrase?
Ah! fled for ever, as they ne'er had been,
Raz'd from the book of fame; or, more provoking,
Perhaps some hackney hunger-bitten scribbler
Insults thy memory, and blots thy tomb
With long flat narrative, or duller rhymes,
With heavy-halting pace that drawl along;
Enough to rouse a dead man into rage,
And warm with red resentment the wan cheek.
Blair's Grave.
"Tis here all meet!

The shivering Icelander, and sun-burnt Moor;
Men of all climes, that never met before;
And of all creeds, the Jew, the Turk, and Christian.
Here the prince, and favourite yet prouder,
His sov'reign's keeper, and the people's scourge.
Are huddled out of sight. Here lie abash'd
The great negotiators of the earth,
And celebrated masters of the balance,
Deep read in stratagems, and wiles of courts;
Now vain their treaty skill! Death scorns to treat.

Blair's Grave.

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Here garrulous old age winds up his tale;
And jovial youth, of lightsome, vacant heart,
Whose every day was made of melody,
Hears not the voice of mirth: the shrill-tongued
shrew,

Meek as the turtle-dove, forgets her chiding.
Here are the wise, the gen'rous, and the brave;
The just, the good, the worthless, the profane,
The downright clown, and perfectly well-bred;
The fool, the churl, the scoundrel, and the mean,
The supple statesman, and the patriot stern;
The wrecks of nations, and the spoils of time,
With all the lumber of six thousand years.

Blair's Grave.

But know that thou must render up the dead,
And with high interest too! they are not thine
But only in thy keeping for a season,
Till the great promis'd day of restitution;
When loud diffusive sound of brazen trump
Of strong-lung'd cherub shall alarm thy captives,
And rouse the long, long sleepers into life,
Daylight and liberty.

Why should the grave be terrible?
Why should it be a word of fear,
Jarring upon the mortal ear?
There repose and silence dwell:
The living hear the funeral knell,

Blair's Grave

But the dead no funeral knell can hear.
Does the gay flower scorn the grave? the dew
Refuse to bathe it? or the beam
Forget to kiss its turf? the stream

Of moonlight shun the narrow bed,
Where the tired pilgrim rests his head?
No! the moon is there, and smiling too!
Is oft in that ancient yew-tree heard;
And the sweetest song of the morning bird

And there may you see the hare-bell blue
Bending his light form gently-proudly,
And listen to the fresh winds, loudly
Playing around your sod, as gay
As if it were a holiday,

And children freed from durance they.

Bowring

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Greatness hath its cankers, worms, and moths; Bred out of too much humour in the things Which after they consume; transferring quite The substance of their makers into themselves. Jonson's Sejanus. Greatness is like a cloud in th' airy bounds, Which some base vapours have congeal'd above; It brawls with Vulcan, thund'ring forth huge sounds,

Yet melts and fails there whence it first did move.
Earl of Sterline.
Since, by your greatness, you

Are nearer heaven in place; be nearer it
In goodness: rich men should transcend the poor,
As clouds the carth; rais'd by the comfort of
The sun, to water dry and barren grounds.

It is the curse of greatness To be its own destruction.

Tourneur.

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'Tis a proud mendicant; it boasts, and begs;

Nabbs's Hannibal and Scipio. It begs an alms of homage from the throng,
And oft the throng denies its charity.

I was born with greatness;

I've honours, titles, power, here within:
All vain external greatness I contemn.
Am I the higher for supporting mountains?
The taller for a flatt'rer's humble bowing?
Have I more room for being throng'd with followers?
The larger soul for having all my thoughts
Fill'd with the lumber of the state affairs?
Honours and riches are all splendid vanities,
They are of chiefest use to fools and knaves.
Crown's Ambitious Statesman.

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In shape and gesture proudly eminent
Stood like a tow'r; his form had not yet lost
All her original brightness, nor appear'd
Less than archangel ruin'd.

Milton's Paradise Lost.
Forth

In order came the grand infernal peers:

Midst came their mighty paramount, and seem'd
Alone th' antagonist of heav'n, nor less
Than hell's dread emperor with pomp supreme,
And godlike imitated state.

Young's Night Thoughts.

The power to give creates us all our foes:
Where many seek for favour, few can find it:
Each thinks he merits all that he can ask;
And disappointed, wonders at repulse;
Wonders awhile, and then sits down in hate.
Frowde's Philotas
Birth is a shadow. Courage, self-sustain'd,
Out-lords succession's phlegm-and needs no

ancestors.

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Thy worship'd symbols round a villain's trunk
Provoke men's mockery, not their reverence.
Jephson's Braganza.

What is power?-'T is not the state
Of proud tyrants, whom men's hate,
To worse than death,

Can level with a breath

Whose term the meanest hand can antedate -
The peasant with a heart at ease,

Milton's Paradise Lost. Is a greater man than these.

Ah me, they little know How dearly I abide the boast so vain, Under what tortures inwardly I groan, While they adore me on the throne of hell With diadem and sceptre high advanc'd, The lower still I fall, only supreme In misery; such joy ambition finds.

Milton's Paradise Lost.

What is grandeur? Not the sheen Of silken robes; no, nor the mien And haughty eye

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In parts superior what advantage lies?
Tell (for you can) what is it to be wise?
"Tis but to know how little can be known;
To see all others' faults, and feel our own;
Condemn'd in business or in arts to drudge,
Without a second, or without a judge:
Truths would you teach, or save a sinking land?
All fear, none aid you, and few understand.
Painful pre-eminence! yourself to view
Above life's weakness, and its comforts too.
Pope's Essay on Man.

Bring then these blessings to a strict account,
Make fair deduction; see to what they 'mount;
How much of other each is sure to cost;
How much for other oft is wholly lost;
How inconsistent greater goods with these;
How sometimes life is risk'd, and always ease:
Think, and if still the things thy envy call,
Say would'st thou be the man to whom they fall?
To sigh for ribands, if thou art so silly?
Mark how they grace lord Umbra, or sir Billy.
Is yellow dirt the passion of thy life?
Look but on Gripus, or on Gripus' wife.
If parts allure thee, think how Bacon shin'd,
The wisest, brightest, meanest of mankind.
Pope's Essay on Man.

Power! 'tis the fav'rite attribute of gods,
Who look with smiles on men, who can aspire
To copy them.

Martyn's Timoleon.

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What equal torment to the grief of mind,
And pining anguish hid in gentle heart,
That inly feeds itself with thoughts unkind,
And nourisheth her own consuming smart?
What medicine can any leech's art
Yield such a sore, that doth her grievance hide,
And will to none her maladie impart?

Spenser's Fairy Queen
That cruel word her tender heart so thrill'd,
That sudden cold did run through every vein,
And stony horror all her senses fill'd
With dying fit, that down she fell for pain.
Spenser's Fairy Queen.
Which when she heard, as in despightful wise
She wilfully her sorrow did augment,
And offer'd hope of comfort did despise:
Her golden locks most cruelly she rent,
And scraitcht her face with ghastly dreriment;
Ne would she speak, ne sec, ne yet be seen,
But hid her visage, and her head down bent,
Either for grievous shame, or for great teene,
As if her heart with sorrow had transfixed been.
Spenser's Fairy Queen.

When I awoke, and found her place devoid
And nought but pressed grass where she had lyen,
I sorrow'd all so much as erst I joy'd,
And washed all her place with wat'ry eyen.
Spenser's Fairy Queen.

Thus is my summer worn away and wasted,
Thus is my harvest hasten'd all to rathe;
The ear that budded fair is burnt and blasted,
And all my hoped gain is turn'd to scathe.
Of all the seed that in my youth was sown,
Was none but brakes and brambles to be mown.
Spenser's Shepherd's Calendar.
Each substance of a grief hath twenty shadows,
Which show like grief itself, but are not so:
For sorrow's eye glazed with blinding tears,
Divides one thing entire to many objects.
Shaks. Richard II.
When sorrows come, they come not single spies,

But in battalions.

Shaks. Hamlet.

For gnarling sorrow hath less power to bite
The man that mocks at it, and sets it light.
Shaks. Richard II.
What say you now? what comfort have we now?
By heaven, I'll hate him everlastingly,
That bids me be of comfort any more.

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Had he the motive and the cue for passion,
That I have, he would drown the stage with tears,
And cleave the general ear with horrid speech;
Make mad the guilty and appal the free,
Confound the ignorant, and amaze indeed
The very faculties of eyes and ears.

Why, let the stricken deer go weep,
Shaks. Richard II. The heart ungalled play:

Of comfort no man speak:
Let's talk of graves, of worms, of epitaphs:
Make dust our paper, and with rainy eyes
Write sorrow on the bosom of the earth.
Let's choose exccutors, and talk of wills;
And yet not so-
- for what can we bequeath,
Save our deposed bodies in the ground.

Shaks. Hamlet.

For some must watch, while some must sleep;
Thus runs the world away.
Shaks. Hamlet.

One woe doth tread upon another's heel,
So fast they follow.

Shaks. Hamlet.

There's matter in these sighs; these profound
heaves

Shaks. Richard II. You must translate: 'tis fit we understand them.
Shaks. Hamlet.

My grief lies all within,
And these external manners of laments
Are merely shadows to the unscen grief,
That swells with silence to the tortur'd soul.

Shaks. Richard II.

O that this too, too solid flesh would melt,
Thaw, and resolve itself into a dew!
Or that the everlasting had not fix'd

His canon 'gainst self-slaughter! O God! O God!

How weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable

Seem to me all the uses of this world!

Fie on 't! O fie! 't is an unweeded garden,

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Sorrow breaks seasons, and reposing hours,
Makes the night morning, and the noontide night.
Shaks. Richard III.
Some grief shows much of love;
But much of grief shows still some want of wit.
Shaks. Romeo and Juliet.

That grows to seed: things rank and gross in Thou canst not speak of what thou dost not feel,

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