GRE Lit

CLUB — An assembly of good fellows, meeting under certain conditions. ESSAY — A loose sally of the mind; an irregular indigested piece; not a regular and orderly composition. EXCISE — A hateful tax levied upon commodities, and adjudged not by the common judges of property, but wretches hired by those to whom excise is paid. GRUBSTREET — The name of a street near Moorsfield, London, much inhabited by writers of small histories, dictionaries, and temporary poems. LEXICOGRAPHER — A writer of dictionaries, a harmless drudge. NETWORK — Any thing reticulated or decussated, at equal distances, with interstices between the intersections. OATS — A grain which in England is generally given to horses, but in Scotland supports the people. PATRON, n. One who countenances, supports or protects. Commonly a wretch who supports with insolence, and is repaid in flattery. PENSION — An allowance made to any one without an equivalent. In England it is generally understood to mean pay given to a state hireling for treason to his country.

A Dictionary of the English Language Samuel Johnson 1755

But, you may say, we asked you to speak about women and fiction—what has that got to do with a room of one's own? I will try to explain. When you asked me to speak about women and fiction I sat down on the banks of a river and began to wonder what the words meant. They might mean simply a few remarks about Fanny Burney; a few more about Jane Austen; a tribute to the Brontës and a sketch of Haworth Parsonage under snow; some witticisms if possible about Miss Mitford; a respectful allusion to George Eliot; a reference to Mrs Gaskell and one would have done. But at second sight the words seemed not so simple. The title women and fiction might mean, and you may have meant it to mean, women and what they are like; or it might mean women and the fiction that they write; or it might mean women and the fiction that is written about them; or it might mean that somehow all three are inextricably mixed together and you want me to consider them in that light. But when I began to consider the subject in this last way, which seemed the most interesting, I soon saw that it had one fatal drawback. I should never be able to come to a conclusion. I should never be able to fulfil what is, I understand, the first duty of a lecturer—to hand you after an hour's discourse a nugget of pure truth to wrap up between the pages of your notebooks and keep on the mantelpiece for ever. All I could do was to offer you an opinion upon one minor point—a woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write fiction; and that, as you will see, leaves the great problem of the true nature of woman and the true nature of fiction unsolved. I have shirked the duty of coming to a conclusion upon these two questions—women and fiction remain, so far as I am concerned, unsolved problems. But in order to make some amends I am going to do what I can to show you how I arrived at this opinion about the room and the money. I am going to develop in your presence as fully and freely as I can the train of thought which led me to think this. Perhaps if I lay bare the ideas, the prejudices, that lie behind this statement you will find that they have some bearing upon women and some upon fiction. At any rate, when a subject is highly controversial—and any question about sex is that—one cannot hope to tell the truth. One can only show how one came to hold whatever opinion one does hold. One can only give one's audience the chance of drawing their own conclusions as they observe the limitations, the prejudices, the idiosyncrasies of the speaker. Fiction here is likely to contain more truth than fact. Therefore I propose, making use of all the liberties and licences of a novelist, to tell you the story of the two days that preceded my coming here— how, bowed down by the weight of the subject which you have laid upon my shoulders, I pondered it, and made it work in and out of my daily life. I need not say that what I am about to describe has no existence; Oxbridge is an invention; so is Fernham; 'I' is only a convenient term for somebody who has no real being. Lies will flow from my lips, but there may perhaps be some truth mixed up with them; it is for you to seek out this truth and to decide whether any part of it is worth keeping. If not, you will of course throw the whole of it into the wastepaper basket and forget all about it.

A Room of One's Own Virginia Woolf 1929

In the present state of society it appears necessary to go back to first principles in search of the most simple truths, and to dispute with some prevailing prejudice every inch of ground. To clear my way, I must be allowed to ask some plain questions, and the answers will probably appear as unequivocal as the axioms on which reasoning is built; though, when entangled with various motives of action, they are formally contradicted, either by the words or conduct of men. 1 In what does man's pre-eminence over the brute creation consist? The answer is as clear as that a half is less than the whole; in Reason. 2 What acquirement exalts one being above another? Virtue; we spontaneously reply. 3 For what purpose were the passions implanted? That man by struggling with them might attain a degree of knowledge denied to the brutes; whispers Experience. 4 Consequently the perfection of our nature and capability of happiness, must be estimated by the degree of reason, virtue, and knowledge, that distinguish the individual, and direct the laws which bind society: and that from the exercise of reason, knowledge and virtue naturally flow, is equally undeniable, if mankind be viewed collectively. 5 The rights and duties of man thus simplified, it seems almost impertinent to attempt to illustrate truths that appear so incontrovertible; yet such deeply rooted prejudices have clouded reason, and such spurious qualities have assumed the name of virtues, that it is necessary to pursue the course of reason as it has been perplexed and involved in error, by various adventitious circumstances, comparing the simple axiom with casual deviations. 6 Men, in general, seem to employ their reason to justify prejudices, which they have imbibed, they cannot trace how, rather than to root them out. The mind must be strong that resolutely forms its own principles; for a kind of intellectual cowardice prevails which makes many men shrink from the task, or only do it by halves. Yet the imperfect conclusions thus drawn, are frequently very plausible, because they are built on partial experience, on just, though narrow, views. 7 Going back to first principles, vice skulks, with all its native deformity, from close investigation; but a set of shallow reasoners are always exclaiming that these arguments prove too much, and that a measure rotten at the core may be expedient. Thus expediency is continually contrasted with simple principles, till truth is lost in a mist of words, virtue, in forms, and knowledge rendered a sounding nothing, by the specious prejudices that assume its name.

A Vindication of the Rights of Woman Mary Wollstonecraft 1792

In pious times, ere priest-craft did begin, Before polygamy was made a sin; When man, on many, multipli'd his kind, Ere one to one was cursedly confin'd: When Nature prompted, and no Law deni'd Promiscuous use of concubine and bride; Then, Israel's monarch, after Heaven's own heart, His vigorous warmth did variously impart To wives and slaves: and, wide as his command, Scatter'd his Maker's image through the land. Michal, of royal blood, the crown did wear; A soil ungrateful to the tiller's care: Not so the rest; for several mothers bore To god-like David, several sons before. But since like slaves his bed they did ascend, No true succession could their seed attend. Of all this numerous progeny was none So beautiful, so brave, as Absalom: Whether, inspir'd by some diviner lust, His father got him with a greater gust; Or that his conscious destiny made way, By manly beauty to imperial sway. Early in foreign fields he won renown, With kings and states alli'd to Israel's crown: In peace the thoughts of war he could remove, And seem'd as he were only born for love. Whate'er he did, was done with so much ease, In him alone, 'twas natural to please: His motions all accompani'd with grace; And Paradise was open'd in his face. With secret joy, indulgent David view'd His youthful image in his son renew'd: To all his wishes nothing he deni'd; And made the charming Annabel his bride. What faults he had (for who from faults is free?) His father could not, or he would not see. Some warm excesses, which the Law forbore, Were constru'd youth that purged by boiling o'er: And Amnon's murther, by a specious name, Was call'd a just revenge for injur'd fame. Thus prais'd, and lov'd, the noble youth remain'd, While David, undisturb'd, in Sion reign'd. But life can never be sincerely blest: Heav'n punishes the bad, and proves the best. The Jews, a headstrong, moody, murm'ring race, As ever tri'd th'extent and stretch of grace; God's pamper'd people whom, debauch'd with ease, No king could govern, nor no God could please; (Gods they had tri'd of every shape and size, That god-smiths could produce, or priests devise:) These Adam-wits, too fortunately free, Began to dream they wanted liberty: And when no rule, no precedent, was found Of men, by laws less circumscrib'd and bound, They led their wild desires to woods and caves, And thought that all but savages were slaves. They who, when Saul was dead, without a blow, Made foolish Ishbosheth the crown forego; Who banisht David did from Hebron bring, And, with a general shout, proclaim'd him king: Those very Jews, who, at their very best, Their Humour more than loyalty exprest, Now, wonder'd why, so long, they had obey'd An idol-monarch which their hands had made: Thought they might ruin him they could create; Or melt him to that golden calf, a state. But these were random bolts: no form'd design, Nor interest made the factious crowd to join: The sober part of Israel, free from stain, Well knew the value of a peaceful reign: And, looking backward with a wise afright, Saw seams of wounds, dishonest to the sight: In contemplation of whose ugly scars, They curst the memory of civil wars. The moderate sort of men, thus qualifi'd, Inclin'd the balance to the better side: And, David's mildness manag'd it so well, The bad found no occasion to rebel. But, when to sin our bias'd nature leans, The careful Devil is still at hand with means; And providently pimps for ill desires: The good old cause reviv'd, a plot requires. Plots, true or false, are necessary things, To raise up common-wealths, and ruin kings.

Absalom and Achitophel (Analogizes political situation Charles II) John Dryden 1681

WHAT dire Offence from am'rous Causes springs, What mighty Contests rise from trivial Things, I sing -- This Verse to C---, Muse! is due; This, ev'n Belinda may vouchfafe to view: Slight is the Subject, but not so the Praise, If She inspire, and He approve my Lays. Say what strange Motive, Goddess! cou'd compel A well-bred Lord t'assault a gentle Belle? Oh say what stranger Cause, yet unexplor'd, Cou'd make a gentle Belle reject a Lord? And dwells such Rage in softest Bosoms then? And lodge such daring Souls in Little Men? Sol thro' white Curtains shot a tim'rous Ray, And op'd those Eyes that must eclipse the Day; Now Lapdogs give themselves the rowzing Shake, And sleepless Lovers, just at Twelve, awake: Thrice rung the Bell, the Slipper knock'd the Ground, And the press'd Watch return'd a silver Sound. Belinda still her downy Pillow prest, Her Guardian Sylph prolong'd the balmy Rest. 'Twas he had summon'd to her silent Bed The Morning-Dream that hover'd o'er her Head. A Youth more glitt'ring than a Birth-night Beau, (That ev'n in Slumber caus'd her Cheek to glow) Seem'd to her Ear his winning Lips to lay, And thus in Whispers said, or seem'd to say.

Alexander Pope The Rape of the Lock 1712

Can we not force from widow'd poetry, Now thou art dead (great Donne) one elegy To crown thy hearse? Why yet dare we not trust, Though with unkneaded dough-bak'd prose, thy dust, Such as th' unscissor'd churchman from the flower Of fading rhetoric, short-liv'd as his hour, Dry as the sand that measures it, should lay Upon thy ashes, on the funeral day? Have we no voice, no tune? Didst thou dispense Through all our language, both the words and sense? 'Tis a sad truth. The pulpit may her plain And sober Christian precepts still retain, Doctrines it may, and wholesome uses, frame, Grave homilies and lectures, but the flame Of thy brave soul (that shot such heat and light As burnt our earth and made our darkness bright, Committed holy rapes upon our will, Did through the eye the melting heart distil, And the deep knowledge of dark truths so teach As sense might judge what fancy could not reach) Must be desir'd forever. So the fire That fills with spirit and heat the Delphic quire, Which, kindled first by thy Promethean breath, Glow'd here a while, lies quench'd now in thy death. The Muses' garden, with pedantic weeds O'erspread, was purg'd by thee; the lazy seeds Of servile imitation thrown away, And fresh invention planted; thou didst pay The debts of our penurious bankrupt age; Licentious thefts, that make poetic rage A mimic fury, when our souls must be Possess'd, or with Anacreon's ecstasy, Or Pindar's, not their own; the subtle cheat Of sly exchanges, and the juggling feat Of two-edg'd words, or whatsoever wrong By ours was done the Greek or Latin tongue, Thou hast redeem'd, and open'd us a mine Of rich and pregnant fancy; drawn a line Of masculine expression, which had good Old Orpheus seen, or all the ancient brood Our superstitious fools admire, and hold Their lead more precious than thy burnish'd gold, Thou hadst been their exchequer, and no more They each in other's dust had rak'd for ore. Thou shalt yield no precedence, but of time, And the blind fate of language, whose tun'd chime More charms the outward sense; yet thou mayst claim From so great disadvantage greater fame, Since to the awe of thy imperious wit Our stubborn language bends, made only fit With her tough thick-ribb'd hoops to gird about Thy giant fancy, which had prov'd too stout For their soft melting phrases. As in time They had the start, so did they cull the prime Buds of invention many a hundred year, And left the rifled fields, besides the fear To touch their harvest; yet from those bare lands Of what is purely thine, thy only hands, (And that thy smallest work) have gleaned more Than all those times and tongues could reap before. But thou art gone, and thy strict laws will be Too hard for libertines in poetry; They will repeal the goodly exil'd train Of gods and goddesses, which in thy just reign Were banish'd nobler poems; now with these, The silenc'd tales o' th' Metamorphoses Shall stuff their lines, and swell the windy page, Till verse, refin'd by thee, in this last age Turn ballad rhyme, or those old idols be Ador'd again, with new apostasy. Oh, pardon me, that break with untun'd verse The reverend silence that attends thy hearse, Whose awful solemn murmurs were to thee, More than these faint lines, a loud elegy, That did proclaim in a dumb eloquence The death of all the arts; whose influence, Grown feeble, in these panting numbers lies, Gasping short-winded accents, and so dies. So doth the swiftly turning wheel not stand In th' instant we withdraw the moving hand, But some small time maintain a faint weak course, By virtue of the first impulsive force; And so, whilst I cast on thy funeral pile Thy crown of bays, oh, let it crack awhile, And spit disdain, till the devouring flashes Suck all the moisture up, then turn to ashes. I will not draw the envy to engross All thy perfections, or weep all our loss; Those are too numerous for an elegy, And this too great to be express'd by me. Though every pen should share a distinct part, Yet art thou theme enough to tire all art; Let others carve the rest, it shall suffice I on thy tomb this epitaph incise: Here lies a king, that rul'd as he thought fit The universal monarchy of wit; Here lie two flamens, and both those, the best, Apollo's first, at last, the true God's priest.

An Elegy upon the Death of the Dean of Paul's, Dr. John Donne Thomas Carew

'Tis hard to say, if greater want of skill Appear in writing or in judging ill; But, of the two, less dang'rous is th' offence To tire our patience, than mislead our sense. Some few in that, but numbers err in this, Ten censure wrong for one who writes amiss; A fool might once himself alone expose, Now one in verse makes many more in prose. 'Tis with our judgments as our watches, none Go just alike, yet each believes his own. In poets as true genius is but rare, True taste as seldom is the critic's share; Both must alike from Heav'n derive their light, These born to judge, as well as those to write. Let such teach others who themselves excel, And censure freely who have written well. Authors are partial to their wit, 'tis true, But are not critics to their judgment too? Yet if we look more closely we shall find Most have the seeds of judgment in their mind; Nature affords at least a glimm'ring light; The lines, tho' touch'd but faintly, are drawn right. But as the slightest sketch, if justly trac'd, Is by ill colouring but the more disgrac'd, So by false learning is good sense defac'd; Some are bewilder'd in the maze of schools, And some made coxcombs Nature meant but fools. In search of wit these lose their common sense, And then turn critics in their own defence: Each burns alike, who can, or cannot write, Or with a rival's, or an eunuch's spite. All fools have still an itching to deride, And fain would be upon the laughing side. If Mævius scribble in Apollo's spite, There are, who judge still worse than he can write. Some have at first for wits, then poets pass'd, Turn'd critics next, and prov'd plain fools at last; Some neither can for wits nor critics pass, As heavy mules are neither horse nor ass. Those half-learn'd witlings, num'rous in our isle As half-form'd insects on the banks of Nile; Unfinish'd things, one knows not what to call, Their generation's so equivocal: To tell 'em, would a hundred tongues require, Or one vain wit's, that might a hundred tire. But you who seek to give and merit fame, And justly bear a critic's noble name, Be sure your self and your own reach to know, How far your genius, taste, and learning go; Launch not beyond your depth, but be discreet, And mark that point where sense and dulness meet. Nature to all things fix'd the limits fit, And wisely curb'd proud man's pretending wit: As on the land while here the ocean gains, In other parts it leaves wide sandy plains; Thus in the soul while memory prevails, The solid pow'r of understanding fails; Where beams of warm imagination play, The memory's soft figures melt away. One science only will one genius fit; So vast is art, so narrow human wit: Not only bounded to peculiar arts, But oft in those, confin'd to single parts. Like kings we lose the conquests gain'd before, By vain ambition still to make them more; Each might his sev'ral province well command, Would all but stoop to what they understand. First follow NATURE, and your judgment frame By her just standard, which is still the same: Unerring Nature, still divinely bright, One clear, unchang'd, and universal light, Life, force, and beauty, must to all impart, At once the source, and end, and test of art. Art from that fund each just supply provides, Works without show, and without pomp presides: In some fair body thus th' informing soul With spirits feeds, with vigour fills the whole, Each motion guides, and ev'ry nerve sustains; Itself unseen, but in th' effects, remains. Some, to whom Heav'n in wit has been profuse, Want as much more, to turn it to its use; For wit and judgment often are at strife, Though meant each other's aid, like man and wife. 'Tis more to guide, than spur the Muse's steed; Restrain his fury, than provoke his speed; The winged courser, like a gen'rous horse, Shows most true mettle when you check his course. Those RULES of old discover'd, not devis'd, Are Nature still, but Nature methodis'd; Nature, like liberty, is but restrain'd By the same laws which first herself ordain'd. Hear how learn'd Greece her useful rules indites, When to repress, and when indulge our flights: High on Parnassus' top her sons she show'd, And pointed out those arduous paths they trod; Held from afar, aloft, th' immortal prize, And urg'd the rest by equal steps to rise. Just precepts thus from great examples giv'n, She drew from them what they deriv'd from Heav'n. The gen'rous critic fann'd the poet's fire, And taught the world with reason to admire. Then criticism the Muse's handmaid prov'd, To dress her charms, and make her more belov'd; But following wits from that intention stray'd; Who could not win the mistress, woo'd the maid; Against the poets their own arms they turn'd, Sure to hate most the men from whom they learn'd. So modern 'pothecaries, taught the art By doctor's bills to play the doctor's part, Bold in the practice of mistaken rules, Prescribe, apply, and call their masters fools. Some on the leaves of ancient authors prey, Nor time nor moths e'er spoil'd so much as they: Some drily plain, without invention's aid, Write dull receipts how poems may be made: These leave the sense, their learning to display, And those explain the meaning quite away. You then whose judgment the right course would steer, Know well each ANCIENT'S proper character; His fable, subject, scope in ev'ry page; Religion, country, genius of his age: Without all these at once before your eyes, Cavil you may, but never criticise. Be Homer's works your study and delight, Read them by day, and meditate by night; Thence form your judgment, thence your maxims bring, And trace the Muses upward to their spring; Still with itself compar'd, his text peruse; And let your comment be the Mantuan Muse.

An Essay on Criticism Alexander Pope 1711

They, who to states and governors of the Commonwealth direct their speech, High Court of Parliament, or, wanting such access in a private condition, write that which they foresee may advance the public good; I suppose them, as at the beginning of no mean endeavour, not a little altered and moved inwardly in their minds: some with doubt of what will be the success, others with fear of what will be the censure; some with hope, others with confidence of what they have to speak. And me perhaps each of these dispositions, as the subject was whereon I entered, may have at other times variously affected; and likely might in these foremost expressions now also disclose which of them swayed most, but that the very attempt of this address thus made, and the thought of whom it hath recourse to, hath got the power within me to a passion, far more welcome than incidental to a preface. Which though I stay not to confess ere any ask, I shall be blameless, if it be no other than the joy and gratulation which it brings to all who wish and promote their country's liberty; whereof this whole discourse proposed will be a certain testimony, if not a trophy. For this is not the liberty which we can hope, that no grievance ever should arise in the Commonwealth—that let no man in this world expect; but when complaints are freely heard, deeply considered and speedily reformed, then is the utmost bound of civil liberty attained that wise men look for. To which if I now manifest by the very sound of this which I shall utter, that we are already in good part arrived, and yet from such a steep disadvantage of tyranny and superstition grounded into our principles as was beyond the manhood of a Roman recovery, it will be attributed first, as is most due, to the strong assistance of God our deliverer, next to your faithful guidance and undaunted wisdom, Lords and Commons of England. Neither is it in God's esteem the diminution of his glory, when honourable things are spoken of good men and worthy magistrates; which if I now first should begin to do, after so fair a progress of your laudable deeds, and such a long obligement upon the whole realm to your indefatigable virtues, I might be justly reckoned among the tardiest, and the unwillingest of them that praise ye.

Areopagitica (A SPEECH FOR THE LIBERTY OF UNLICENSED PRINTING TO THE PARLIAMENT OF ENGLAND) John Milton 1644

Before the starry threshold of Jove's court My mansion is, where those immortal shapes Of bright aërial spirits live insphered In regions mild of calm and serene air, Above the smoke and stir of this dim spot Which men call Earth, and, with low-thoughted care, Confined and pestered in this pinfold here, Strive to keep up a frail and feverish being, Unmindful of the crown that Virtue gives, After this mortal change, to her true servants 10 Amongst the enthroned gods on sainted seats. Yet some there be that by due steps aspire To lay their just hands on that golden key That opes the palace of eternity. To such my errand is; and, but for such, I would not soil these pure ambrosial weeds With the rank vapours of this sin-worn mould. But to my task. Neptune, besides the sway Of every salt flood and each ebbing stream, Took in by lot, 'twixt high and nether Jove, 20 Imperial rule of all the sea-girt isles That, like to rich and various gems, inlay The unadornéd bosom of the deep; Which he, to grace his tributary gods, By course commits to several government, And gives them leave to wear their sapphire crowns And wield their little tridents. But this Isle, The greatest and the best of all the main, He quarters to his blue-haired deities; And all this tract that fronts the falling sun 30 A noble Peer of mickle trust and power Has in his charge, with tempered awe to guide An old and haughty nation, proud in arms: Where his fair offspring, nursed in princely lore, Are coming to attend their father's state, And new-intrusted sceptre. But their way Lies through the perplexed paths of this drear wood, The nodding horror of whose shady brows Threats the forlorn and wandering passenger; And here their tender age might suffer peril, 40 But that, by quick command from sovran Jove, I was despatched for their defence and guard: And listen why; for I will tell you now What never yet was heard in tale or song, From old or modern bard, in hall or bower.

Comus (A Mask) John Milton 1637

Elder Brother. Peace, brother: be not over-exquisite To cast the fashion of uncertain evils; 360 For, grant they be so, while they rest unknown, What need a man forestall his date of grief, And run to meet what he would most avoid? Or, if they be but false alarms of fear, How bitter is such self-delusion! I do not think my sister so to seek, Or so unprincipled in virtue's book, And the sweet peace that goodness bosoms ever, As that the single want of light and noise (Not being in danger, as I trust she is not) 370 Could stir the constant mood of her calm thoughts, And put them into misbecoming plight. Virtue could see to do what Virtue would By her own radiant light, though sun and moon Were in the flat sea sunk. And Wisdom's self Oft seeks to sweet retired solitude, Where, with her best nurse, Contemplation, She plumes her feathers, and lets grow her wings, That, in the various bustle of resort, Were all to-ruffled, and sometimes impaired. 380 He that has light within his own clear breast May sit i' the centre, and enjoy bright day: But he that hides a dark soul and foul thoughts Benighted walks under the mid-day sun; Himself is his own dungeon. Second Brother. 'Tis most true That musing meditation most affects The pensive secrecy of desert cell, Far from the cheerful haunt of men and herds, And sits as safe as in a senate-house; For who would rob a hermit of his weeds, 390 His few books, or his beads, or maple dish, Or do his grey hairs any violence? But Beauty, like the fair Hesperian tree Laden with blooming gold, had need the guard Of dragon-watch with unenchanted eye To save her blossoms, and defend her fruit, From the rash hand of bold Incontinence. You may as well spread out the unsunned heaps Of miser's treasure by an outlaw's den, And tell me it is safe, as bid me hope 400 Danger will wink on Opportunity, And let a single helpless maiden pass Uninjured in this wild surrounding waste. Of night or loneliness it recks me not; I fear the dread events that dog them both, Lest some ill-greeting touch attempt the person Of our unownéd sister. Elder Brother. I do not, brother, Infer as if I thought my sister's state Secure without all doubt or controversy; Yet, where an equal poise of hope and fear 410 Does arbitrate the event, my nature is That I incline to hope rather than fear, And gladly banish squint suspicion. My sister is not so defenceless left As you imagine; she has a hidden strength, Which you remember not. Second Brother. What hidden strength, Unless the strength of Heaven, if you mean that?

Comus (A Mask) John Milton 1637

Not marching now in fields of Thrasymene, Where Mars did mate1 the Carthaginians; Nor sporting in the dalliance of love, In courts of kings where state is overturn'd; Nor in the pomp of proud audacious deeds, Intends our Muse to vaunt2 her3 heavenly verse: Only this, gentlemen,—we must perform The form of Faustus' fortunes, good or bad: To patient judgments we appeal our plaud, And speak for Faustus in his infancy. Now is he born, his parents base of stock, In Germany, within a town call'd Rhodes: Of riper years, to Wertenberg he went, Whereas4 his kinsmen chiefly brought him up. So soon he profits in divinity, The fruitful plot of scholarism grac'd, That shortly he was grac'd with doctor's name, Excelling all whose sweet delight disputes In heavenly matters of theology; Till swoln with cunning,5 of a self-conceit, His waxen wings did mount above his reach, And, melting, heavens conspir'd his overthrow; For, falling to a devilish exercise, And glutted now6 with learning's golden gifts, He surfeits upon cursed necromancy; Nothing so sweet as magic is to him, Which he prefers before his chiefest bliss: And this the man that in his study sits.

Dr. Faustus Christopher Marlowe 1588-93?

THE SALINAS VALLEY is in Northern California. It is a long narrow swale between two ranges of mountains, and the Salinas River winds and twists up the center until it falls at last into Monterey Bay. I remember my childhood names for grasses and secret flowers. I remember where a toad may live and what time the birds awaken in the summer—and what trees and seasons smelled like—how people looked and walked and smelled even. The memory of odors is very rich. I remember that the Gabilan Mountains to the east of the valley were light gay mountains full of sun and loveliness and a kind of invitation, so that you wanted to climb into their warm foothills almost as you want to climb into the lap of a beloved mother. They were beckoning mountains with a brown grass love. The Santa Lucias stood up against the sky to the west and kept the valley from the open sea, and they were dark and brooding—unfriendly and dangerous. I always found in myself a dread of west and a love of east. Where I ever got such an idea I cannot say, unless it could be that the morning came over the peaks of the Gabilans and the night drifted back from the ridges of the Santa Lucias. It may be that the birth and death of the day had some part in my feeling about the two ranges of mountains. From both sides of the valley little streams slipped out of the hill canyons and fell into the bed of the Salinas River. In the winter of wet years the streams ran full-freshet, and they swelled the river until sometimes it raged and boiled, bank full, and then it was a destroyer. The river tore the edges of the farm lands and washed whole acres down; it toppled barns and houses into itself, to go floating and bobbing away. It trapped cows and pigs and sheep and drowned them in its muddy brown water and carried them to the sea. Then when the late spring came, the river drew in from its edges and the sand banks appeared. And in the summer the river didn't run at all above ground. Some pools would be left in the deep swirl places under a high bank. The tules and grasses grew back, and willows straightened up with the flood debris in their upper branches. The Salinas was only a part-time river. The summer sun drove it underground. It was not a fine river at all, but it was the only one we had and so we boasted about it—how dangerous it was in a wet winter and how dry it was in a dry summer. You can boast about anything if it's all you have. Maybe the less you have, the more you are required to boast. The floor of the Salinas Valley, between the ranges and below the foothills, is level because this valley used to be the bottom of a hundred-mile inlet from the sea. The river mouth at Moss Landing was centuries ago the entrance to this long inland water. Once, fifty miles down the valley, my father bored a well. The drill came up first with topsoil and then with gravel and then with white sea sand full of shells and even pieces of whalebone. There were twenty feet of sand and then black earth again, and even a piece of redwood, that imperishable wood that does not rot. Before the inland sea the valley must have been a forest. And those things had happened right under our feet. And it seemed to me sometimes at night that I could feel both the sea and the redwood forest before it.

East of Eden John Steinbeck 1952

For thee, who mindful of th' unhonour'd Dead Dost in these lines their artless tale relate; If chance, by lonely contemplation led, Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate, Haply some hoary-headed swain may say, "Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn Brushing with hasty steps the dews away To meet the sun upon the upland lawn. "There at the foot of yonder nodding beech That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high, His listless length at noontide would he stretch, And pore upon the brook that babbles by. "Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, Mutt'ring his wayward fancies he would rove, Now drooping, woeful wan, like one forlorn, Or craz'd with care, or cross'd in hopeless love. "One morn I miss'd him on the custom'd hill, Along the heath and near his fav'rite tree; Another came; nor yet beside the rill, Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he; "The next with dirges due in sad array Slow thro' the church-way path we saw him borne. Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay, Grav'd on the stone beneath yon aged thorn."

Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard Thomas Gray 1751

Some change of countenance was necessary for each gentleman as they walked into Mrs. Weston's drawing-room;—Mr. Elton must compose his joyous looks, and Mr. John Knightley disperse his ill-humour. Mr. Elton must smile less, and Mr. John Knightley more, to fit them for the place.—Emma only might be as nature prompted, and shew herself just as happy as she was. To her it was real enjoyment to be with the Westons. Mr. Weston was a great favourite, and there was not a creature in the world to whom she spoke with such unreserve, as to his wife; not any one, to whom she related with such conviction of being listened to and understood, of being always interesting and always intelligible, the little affairs, arrangements, perplexities, and pleasures of her father and herself. She could tell nothing of Hartfield, in which Mrs. Weston had not a lively concern; and half an hour's uninterrupted communication of all those little matters on which the daily happiness of private life depends, was one of the first gratifications of each. This was a pleasure which perhaps the whole day's visit might not afford, which certainly did not belong to the present half-hour; but the very sight of Mrs. Weston, her smile, her touch, her voice was grateful to Emma, and she determined to think as little as possible of Mr. Elton's oddities, or of any thing else unpleasant, and enjoy all that was enjoyable to the utmost. The misfortune of Harriet's cold had been pretty well gone through before her arrival. Mr. Woodhouse had been safely seated long enough to give the history of it, besides all the history of his own and Isabella's coming, and of Emma's being to follow, and had indeed just got to the end of his satisfaction that James should come and see his daughter, when the others appeared, and Mrs. Weston, who had been almost wholly engrossed by her attentions to him, was able to turn away and welcome her dear Emma. Emma's project of forgetting Mr. Elton for a while made her rather sorry to find, when they had all taken their places, that he was close to her. The difficulty was great of driving his strange insensibility towards Harriet, from her mind, while he not only sat at her elbow, but was continually obtruding his happy countenance on her notice, and solicitously addressing her upon every occasion. Instead of forgetting him, his behaviour was such that she could not avoid the internal suggestion of "Can it really be as my brother imagined? can it be possible for this man to be beginning to transfer his affections from Harriet to me?—Absurd and insufferable!"—Yet he would be so anxious for her being perfectly warm, would be so interested about her father, and so delighted with Mrs. Weston; and at last would begin admiring her drawings with so much zeal and so little knowledge as seemed terribly like a would-be lover, and made it some effort with her to preserve her good manners. For her own sake she could not be rude; and for Harriet's, in the hope that all would yet turn out right, she was even positively civil; but it was an effort; especially as something was going on amongst the others, in the most overpowering period of Mr. Elton's nonsense, which she particularly wished to listen to. She heard enough to know that Mr. Weston was giving some information about his son; she heard the words "my son," and "Frank," and "my son," repeated several times over; and, from a few other half-syllables very much suspected that he was announcing an early visit from his son; but before she could quiet Mr. Elton, the subject was so completely past that any reviving question from her would have been awkward.

Emma Jane Austen 1815

Yet may we not see still the brontoichthyan form outlined a-slumbered, even in our own nighttime by the sedge of the trout-ing stream that Bronto loved and Brunto has a lean on. Hiccubat edilis. Apud libertinam parvulam. Whatif she be in flags or flitters,reekierags or sundyechosies, with a mint of mines or beggar a pinnyweight. Arrah, sure, we all love little Anny Ruiny, or, we mean to say, lovelittle Anna Rayiny, when unda her brella, mid piddle med puddle, she ninnygoes nannygoes nancing by. Yoh! Brontolone slaaps, yoh snoores. Upon Benn Heather, in Seeple Isout too. The cranic head on him, caster of his reasons, peer yu-thner in yondmist. Whooth? His clay feet, swarded in verdigrass, stick up starck where he last fellonem, by the mund of the maga-zine wall, where our maggy seen all, with her sisterin shawl.While over against this belles' alliance beyind Ill Sixty, ollol-lowed ill! bagsides of the fort, bom, tarabom, tarabom, lurk the ombushes, the site of the lyffing-in-wait of the upjock and hock-ums. Hence when the clouds roll by, jamey, a proudseye view is enjoyable of our mounding's mass, now Wallinstone national museum, with, in some greenish distance, the charmful water-loose country and the two quitewhite villagettes who hear show of themselves so gigglesomes minxt the follyages, the prettilees! Penetrators are permitted into the museomound free.

Finnegans Wake James Joyce 1939

But the greatest danger I ever underwent in that kingdom, was from a monkey, who belonged to one of the clerks of the kitchen. Glumdalclitch had locked me up in her closet, while she went somewhere upon business, or a visit. The weather being very warm, the closet-window was left open, as well as the windows and the door of my bigger box, in which I usually lived, because of its largeness and conveniency. As I sat quietly meditating at my table, I heard something bounce in at the closet-window, and skip about from one side to the other: whereat, although I was much alarmed, yet I ventured to look out, but not stirring from my seat; and then I saw this frolicsome animal frisking and leaping up and down, till at last he came to my box, which he seemed to view with great pleasure and curiosity, peeping in at the door and every window. I retreated to the farther corner of my room; or box; but the monkey looking in at every side, put me in such a fright, that I wanted presence of mind to conceal myself under the bed, as I might easily have done. After some time spent in peeping, grinning, and chattering, he at last espied me; and reaching one of his paws in at the door, as a cat does when she plays with a mouse, although I often shifted place to avoid him, he at length seized the lappet of my coat (which being made of that country silk, was very thick and strong), and dragged me out. He took me up in his right fore-foot and held me as a nurse does a child she is going to suckle, just as I have seen the same sort of creature do with a kitten in Europe; and when I offered to struggle he squeezed me so hard, that I thought it more prudent to submit. I have good reason to believe, that he took me for a young one of his own species, by his often stroking my face very gently with his other paw. In these diversions he was interrupted by a noise at the closet door, as if somebody were opening it: whereupon he suddenly leaped up to the window at which he had come in, and thence upon the leads and gutters, walking upon three legs, and holding me in the fourth, till he clambered up to a roof that was next to ours. I heard Glumdalclitch give a shriek at the moment he was carrying me out. The poor girl was almost distracted: that quarter of the palace was all in an uproar; the servants ran for ladders; the monkey was seen by hundreds in the court, sitting upon the ridge of a building, holding me like a baby in one of his forepaws, and feeding me with the other, by cramming into my mouth some victuals he had squeezed out of the bag on one side of his chaps, and patting me when I would not eat; whereat many of the rabble below could not forbear laughing; neither do I think they justly ought to be blamed, for, without question, the sight was ridiculous enough to every body but myself. Some of the people threw up stones, hoping to drive the monkey down; but this was strictly forbidden, or else, very probably, my brains had been dashed out.

Gulliver's Travels Jonathan Swift 1726

My father had a small estate in Nottinghamshire: I was the third of five sons. He sent me to Emanuel College in Cambridge at fourteen years old, where I resided three years, and applied myself close to my studies; but the charge of maintaining me, although I had a very scanty allowance, being too great for a narrow fortune, I was bound apprentice to Mr. James Bates, an eminent surgeon in London, with whom I continued four years. My father now and then sending me small sums of money, I laid them out in learning navigation, and other parts of the mathematics, useful to those who intend to travel, as I always believed it would be, some time or other, my fortune to do. When I left Mr. Bates, I went down to my father: where, by the assistance of him and my uncle John, and some other relations, I got forty pounds, and a promise of thirty pounds a year to maintain me at Leyden: there I studied physic two years and seven months, knowing it would be useful in long voyages. Soon after my return from Leyden, I was recommended by my good master, Mr. Bates, to be surgeon to the Swallow, Captain Abraham Pannel, commander; with whom I continued three years and a half, making a voyage or two into the Levant, and some other parts. When I came back I resolved to settle in London; to which Mr. Bates, my master, encouraged me, and by him I was recommended to several patients. I took part of a small house in the Old Jewry; and being advised to alter my condition, I married Mrs. Mary Burton, second daughter to Mr. Edmund Burton, hosier, in Newgate-street, with whom I received four hundred pounds for a portion. But my good master Bates dying in two years after, and I having few friends, my business began to fail; for my conscience would not suffer me to imitate the bad practice of too many among my brethren. Having therefore consulted with my wife, and some of my acquaintance, I determined to go again to sea. I was surgeon successively in two ships, and made several voyages, for six years, to the East and West Indies, by which I got some addition to my fortune. My hours of leisure I spent in reading the best authors, ancient and modern, being always provided with a good number of books; and when I was ashore, in observing the manners and dispositions of the people, as well as learning their language; wherein I had a great facility, by the strength of my memory.

Gulliver's Travels Jonathan Swift 1726

Batter my heart, three-person'd God, for you As yet but knock, breathe, shine, and seek to mend; That I may rise and stand, o'erthrow me, and bend Your force to break, blow, burn, and make me new. I, like an usurp'd town to another due, Labor to admit you, but oh, to no end; Reason, your viceroy in me, me should defend, But is captiv'd, and proves weak or untrue. Yet dearly I love you, and would be lov'd fain, But am betroth'd unto your enemy; Divorce me, untie or break that knot again, Take me to you, imprison me, for I, Except you enthrall me, never shall be free, Nor ever chaste, except you ravish me.

Holy Sonnet 14 from The Holy Sonnets/Divine Meditations John Donne 1633—two years after Donne's death

As soon as Joseph had communicated a particular history of the robbery, together with a short account of himself, and his intended journey, he asked the surgeon if he apprehended him to be in any danger: to which the surgeon very honestly answered, "He feared he was; for that his pulse was very exalted and feverish, and, if his fever should prove more than symptomatic, it would be impossible to save him." Joseph, fetching a deep sigh, cried, "Poor Fanny, I would I could have lived to see thee! but God's will be done." The surgeon then advised him, if he had any worldly affairs to settle, that he would do it as soon as possible; for, though he hoped he might recover, yet he thought himself obliged to acquaint him he was in great danger; and if the malign concoction of his humours should cause a suscitation of his fever, he might soon grow delirious and incapable to make his will. Joseph answered, "That it was impossible for any creature in the universe to be in a poorer condition than himself; for since the robbery he had not one thing of any kind whatever which he could call his own." "I had," said he, "a poor little piece of gold, which they took away, that would have been a comfort to me in all my afflictions; but surely, Fanny, I want nothing to remind me of thee. I have thy dear image in my heart, and no villain can ever tear it thence." Joseph desired paper and pens, to write a letter, but they were refused him; and he was advised to use all his endeavours to compose himself. They then left him; and Mr Tow-wouse sent to a clergyman to come and administer his good offices to the soul of poor Joseph, since the surgeon despaired of making any successful applications to his body. Mr Barnabas (for that was the clergyman's name) came as soon as sent for; and, having first drank a dish of tea with the landlady, and afterwards a bowl of punch with the landlord, he walked up to the room where Joseph lay; but, finding him asleep, returned to take the other sneaker; which when he had finished, he again crept softly up to the chamber-door, and, having opened it, heard the sick man talking to himself in the following manner:— "O most adorable Pamela! most virtuous sister! whose example could alone enable me to withstand all the temptations of riches and beauty, and to preserve my virtue pure and chaste for the arms of my dear Fanny, if it had pleased Heaven that I should ever have come unto them. What riches, or honours, or pleasures, can make us amends for the loss of innocence? Doth not that alone afford us more consolation than all worldly acquisitions? What but innocence and virtue could give any comfort to such a miserable wretch as I am? Yet these can make me prefer this sick and painful bed to all the pleasures I should have found in my lady's. These can make me face death without fear; and though I love my Fanny more than ever man loved a woman, these can teach me to resign myself to the Divine will without repining. O thou delightful charming creature! if Heaven had indulged thee to my arms, the poorest, humblest state would have been a paradise; I could have lived with thee in the lowest cottage without envying the palaces, the dainties, or the riches of any man breathing. But I must leave thee, leave thee for ever, my dearest angel! I must think of another world; and I heartily pray thou may'st meet comfort in this."—Barnabas thought he had heard enough, so downstairs he went, and told Tow-wouse he could do his guest no service; for that he was very light-headed, and had uttered nothing but a rhapsody of nonsense all the time he stayed in the room.

Joseph Andrews Henry Fielding 1742

It is a trite but true observation, that examples work more forcibly on the mind than precepts: and if this be just in what is odious and blameable, it is more strongly so in what is amiable and praiseworthy. Here emulation most effectually operates upon us, and inspires our imitation in an irresistible manner. A good man therefore is a standing lesson to all his acquaintance, and of far greater use in that narrow circle than a good book. But as it often happens that the best men are but little known, and consequently cannot extend the usefulness of their examples a great way; the writer may be called in aid to spread their history farther, and to present the amiable pictures to those who have not the happiness of knowing the originals; and so, by communicating such valuable patterns to the world, he may perhaps do a more extensive service to mankind than the person whose life originally afforded the pattern. In this light I have always regarded those biographers who have recorded the actions of great and worthy persons of both sexes. Not to mention those antient writers which of late days are little read, being written in obsolete, and as they are generally thought, unintelligible languages, such as Plutarch, Nepos, and others which I heard of in my youth; our own language affords many of excellent use and instruction, finely calculated to sow the seeds of virtue in youth, and very easy to be comprehended by persons of moderate capacity. Such as the history of John the Great, who, by his brave and heroic actions against men of large and athletic bodies, obtained the glorious appellation of the Giant-killer; that of an Earl of Warwick, whose Christian name was Guy; the lives of Argalus and Parthenia; and above all, the history of those seven worthy personages, the Champions of Christendom. In all these delight is mixed with instruction, and the reader is almost as much improved as entertained. But I pass by these and many others to mention two books lately published, which represent an admirable pattern of the amiable in either sex. The former of these, which deals in male virtue, was written by the great person himself, who lived the life he hath recorded, and is by many thought to have lived such a life only in order to write it. The other is communicated to us by an historian who borrows his lights, as the common method is, from authentic papers and records. The reader, I believe, already conjectures, I mean the lives of Mr Colley Cibber and of Mrs Pamela Andrews. How artfully doth the former, by insinuating that he escaped being promoted to the highest stations in Church and State, teach us a contempt of worldly grandeur! how strongly doth he inculcate an absolute submission to our superiors! Lastly, how completely doth he arm us against so uneasy, so wretched a passion as the fear of shame! how clearly doth he expose the emptiness and vanity of that phantom, reputation! What the female readers are taught by the memoirs of Mrs Andrews is so well set forth in the excellent essays or letters prefixed to the second and subsequent editions of that work, that it would be here a needless repetition. The authentic history with which I now present the public is an instance of the great good that book is likely to do, and of the prevalence of example which I have just observed: since it will appear that it was by keeping the excellent pattern of his sister's virtues before his eyes, that Mr Joseph Andrews was chiefly enabled to preserve his purity in the midst of such great temptations. I shall only add that this character of male chastity, though doubtless as desirable and becoming in one part of the human species as in the other, is almost the only virtue which the great apologist hath not given himself for the sake of giving the example to his readers.

Joseph Andrews Henry Fielding 1742

It befell in the days of Uther Pendragon, when he was king of all England, and so reigned, that there was a mighty duke in Cornwall that held war against him long time. And the duke was called the Duke of Tintagil. And so by means King Uther sent for this duke, charging him to bring his wife with him, for she was called a fair lady, and a passing wise, and her name was called Igraine. So when the duke and his wife were come unto the king, by the means of great lords they were accorded both. The king liked and loved this lady well, and he made them great cheer out of measure, and desired to have lain by her. But she was a passing good woman, and would not assent unto the king. And then she told the duke her husband, and said, I suppose that we were sent for that I should be dishonoured; wherefore, husband, I counsel you, that we depart from hence suddenly, that we may ride all night unto our own castle. And in like wise as she said so they departed, that neither the king nor none of his council were ware of their departing. All so soon as King Uther knew of their departing so suddenly, he was wonderly wroth. Then he called to him his privy council, and told them of the sudden departing of the duke and his wife. Then they advised the king to send for the duke and his wife by a great charge; and if he will not come at your summons, then may ye do your best, then have ye cause to make mighty war upon him. So that was done, and the messengers had their answers; and that was this shortly, that neither he nor his wife would not come at him. Then was the king wonderly wroth. And then the king sent him plain word again, and bade him be ready and stuff him and garnish him, for within forty days he would fetch him out of the biggest castle that he hath. When the duke had this warning, anon he went and furnished and garnished two strong castles of his, of the which the one hight Tintagil, and the other castle hight Terrabil. So his wife Dame Igraine he put in the castle of Tintagil, and himself he put in the castle of Terrabil, the which had many issues and posterns out. Then in all haste came Uther with a great host, and laid a siege about the castle of Terrabil. And there he pight many pavilions, and there was great war made on both parties, and much people slain. Then for pure anger and for great love of fair Igraine the king Uther fell sick. So came to the king Uther Sir Ulfius, a noble knight, and asked the king why he was sick. I shall tell thee, said the king, I am sick for anger and for love of fair Igraine, that I may not be whole. Well, my lord, said Sir Ulfius, I shall seek Merlin, and he shall do you remedy, that your heart shall be pleased. So Ulfius departed, and by adventure he met Merlin in a beggar's array, and there Merlin asked Ulfius whom he sought. And he said he had little ado to tell him. Well, said Merlin, I know whom thou seekest, for thou seekest Merlin; therefore seek no farther, for I am he; and if King Uther will well reward me, and be sworn unto me to fulfil my desire, that shall be his honour and profit more than mine; for I shall cause him to have all his desire. All this will I undertake, said Ulfius, that there shall be nothing reasonable but thou shalt have thy desire. Well, said Merlin, he shall have his intent and desire. And therefore, said Merlin, ride on your way, for I will not be long behind.

Le Morte D'Arthur Sir Thomas 1470

HIt befel in the dayes of Vther pendragon when he was kynge of all Englond / and so regned that there was a myȝty duke in Cornewaill that helde warre ageynst hym long tyme / And the duke was called the duke of Tyntagil / and so by meanes kynge Vther send for this duk / chargyng hym to brynge his wyf with hym / for she was called a fair lady / and a passynge wyse / and her name was called Igrayne / So whan the duke and his wyf were comyn vnto the kynge by the meanes of grete lordes they were accorded bothe / the kynge lyked and loued this lady wel / and he made them grete chere out of mesure / and desyred to haue lyen by her / But she was a passyng good woman / and wold not assente vnto the kynge / And thenne she told the duke her husband and said I suppose that we were sente for that I shold be dishonoured Wherfor husband I counceille yow that we departe from hens sodenly that we maye ryde all nyghte vnto oure owne castell / and in lyke wyse as she saide so they departed / that neyther the kynge nor none of his counceill were ware of their departyng Also soone as kyng Vther knewe of theire departyng soo sodenly / he was wonderly wrothe / Thenne he called to hym his pryuy counceille / and told them of the sodeyne departyng of the duke and his wyf / Thenne they auysed the kynge to send for the duke and his wyf by a grete charge / And yf he wille not come at your somōs / thenne may ye do your best / thenne haue ye cause to make myghty werre vpon hym / Soo that was done and the messagers hadde their ansuers / And that was thys shortly / that neyther he nor his wyf wold not come at hym / Thenne was the kyng wonderly wroth / And thenne the kyng sente hym playne word ageyne / and badde hym be redy and stuffe hym and garnysshe hym / for within xl dayes he wold fetche hym oute of the byggest castell that he hath / Whanne the duke hadde thys warnynge / anone he wente and furnysshed and garnysshed two stronge Castels of his of the whiche the one hyght Tyntagil / & the other castel hyȝt

Le Morte D'Arthur (Middle English version) Sir Thomas 1470

the kynges wold none receyue / but rebuked the messagers shamefully / and said they had no ioye to receyue no yeftes of a berdles boye that was come of lowe blood / and sente hym word / they wold none of his yeftes / But that they were come to gyue hym yeftes with hard swerdys betwixt the neck and the sholders / And therfore they came thyder / so they told to the messagers playnly / for it was grete shame to all them to see suche a boye to haue a rule of soo noble a reaume as this land was / With this ansuer the messagers departed & told to kyng Arthur this ansuer / wherfor by the aduys of his barons he took hym to a strong towre with / v / C good men with hym / And all the kynges afore said in a maner leyd a syege tofore hym / but kyng Arthur was well vytailled / And within xv dayes ther came Merlyn amonge hem in to the Cyte of Carlyon / thenne all the kynges were passyng gladde of Merlyn / and asked hym for what cause is that boye Arthur made your kynge / Syres said Merlyn / I shalle telle yow the cause for he is kynge Vtherpendragons sone borne in wedlok goten on Igrayne the dukes wyf of Tyntigail / thenne is he a bastard they said al / nay said Merlyn / After the deth of the duke more than thre houres was Arthur begoten / And xiij dayes after kyng Vther wedded Igrayne / And therfor I preue hym he is no bastard / And who saith nay / he shal be kyng and ouercome alle his enemyes / And or he deye / he shalle be long kynge of all Englond / and haue vnder his obeyssaunce Walys / yrland and Scotland / and moo reames than I will now reherce / Some of the kynges had merueyl of Merlyns wordes and demed well that it shold be as he said / And som of hem lough hym to scorne / as kyng Lot / and mo other called hym a wytche / But thenne were they accorded with Merlyn that kynge Arthur shold come oute and speke with the kynges / and to come sauf and to goo sauf / suche suraunce ther was made / So Merlyn went vnto kynge Arthur / and told hym how he had done / and badde hym fere not but come oute boldly and speke with hem / and spare hem not / but ansuere them as their kynge and chyuetayn / for ye shal ouercome hem all whether they wille or nylle

Le Morte D'Arthur (Middle English version) Sir Thomas 1470

"LIFE OF MILTON" (EXCERPT) He was at this time [1624, aged fifteen] eminently skilled in the Latin tongue; and he himself by annexing the dates to his first compositions, a boast of which the learned Politian [Angelo Poliziano (1454-94), poet and scholar—ed.] had given him an example, seems to commend the earliness of his own proficiency to the notice of posterity; but the products of his vernal fertility have been surpassed by many, and particularly by his contemporary Cowley. Of the powers of the mind it is difficult to form an estimate; many have excelled Milton in their first essays who never rose to works like Paradise Lost. . . . His next production was "Lycidas," an elegy written in 1637 on the death of Mr. King, the son of Sir John King, secretary for Ireland in the time of Elizabeth, James, and Charles. King was much a favorite at Cambridge, and many of the wits joined to do honor to his memory. Milton's acquaintance with the Italian writers may be discovered by a mixture of longer and shorter verses, according to the rules of Tuscan poetry, and his malignity to the Church by some lines which are interpreted as threatening its extermination. . . . For the subject of his epic poem, after much deliberation, "long choosing, and beginning late," he fixed upon Paradise Lost; a design so comprehensive that it could be justified only by success. He had once designed to celebrate King Arthur, as he hints in his verses to Mansus; but "Arthur was reserved," says Fenton, "to another destiny." . . . Of the English poets he set most value upon Spenser, Shakespeare, and Cowley. Spenser was apparently his favorite; Shakespeare he may easily be supposed to like, with every other skilful reader, but I should not have expected that Cowley, whose ideas of excellence were different from his own, would have had much of his approbation. His character of Dryden, who sometimes visited him, was that he was a good rhymist, but no poet.

Lives of the Poets (excerpt) Samuel Johnson 1779

Yet once more, O ye laurels, and once more Ye myrtles brown, with ivy never sere, I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude, And with forc'd fingers rude Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year. Bitter constraint and sad occasion dear Compels me to disturb your season due; For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime, Young Lycidas, and hath not left his peer. Who would not sing for Lycidas? he knew Himself to sing, and build the lofty rhyme. He must not float upon his wat'ry bier Unwept, and welter to the parching wind, Without the meed of some melodious tear. Begin then, Sisters of the sacred well That from beneath the seat of Jove doth spring; Begin, and somewhat loudly sweep the string. Hence with denial vain and coy excuse! So may some gentle muse With lucky words favour my destin'd urn, And as he passes turn And bid fair peace be to my sable shroud! For we were nurs'd upon the self-same hill, Fed the same flock, by fountain, shade, and rill; Together both, ere the high lawns appear'd Under the opening eyelids of the morn, We drove afield, and both together heard What time the gray-fly winds her sultry horn, Batt'ning our flocks with the fresh dews of night, Oft till the star that rose at ev'ning bright Toward heav'n's descent had slop'd his westering wheel. Meanwhile the rural ditties were not mute, Temper'd to th'oaten flute; Rough Satyrs danc'd, and Fauns with clov'n heel, From the glad sound would not be absent long; And old Damætas lov'd to hear our song. But O the heavy change now thou art gone, Now thou art gone, and never must return! Thee, Shepherd, thee the woods and desert caves, With wild thyme and the gadding vine o'ergrown, And all their echoes mourn. The willows and the hazel copses green Shall now no more be seen Fanning their joyous leaves to thy soft lays. As killing as the canker to the rose, Or taint-worm to the weanling herds that graze, Or frost to flowers that their gay wardrobe wear When first the white thorn blows: Such, Lycidas, thy loss to shepherd's ear. Where were ye, Nymphs, when the remorseless deep Clos'd o'er the head of your lov'd Lycidas? For neither were ye playing on the steep Where your old bards, the famous Druids, lie, Nor on the shaggy top of Mona high, Nor yet where Deva spreads her wizard stream. Ay me! I fondly dream Had ye bin there'—for what could that have done? What could the Muse herself that Orpheus bore, The Muse herself, for her enchanting son, Whom universal nature did lament, When by the rout that made the hideous roar His gory visage down the stream was sent, Down the swift Hebrus to the Lesbian shore?

Lycidas John Milton 1637

All human things are subject to decay, And, when Fate summons, monarchs must obey: This Flecknoe found, who, like Augustus, young Was call'd to empire, and had govern'd long: In prose and verse, was own'd, without dispute Through all the realms of Non-sense, absolute. This aged prince now flourishing in peace, And blest with issue of a large increase, Worn out with business, did at length debate To settle the succession of the State: And pond'ring which of all his sons was fit To reign, and wage immortal war with wit; Cry'd, 'tis resolv'd; for nature pleads that he Should only rule, who most resembles me: Shadwell alone my perfect image bears, Mature in dullness from his tender years. Shadwell alone, of all my sons, is he Who stands confirm'd in full stupidity. The rest to some faint meaning make pretence, But Shadwell never deviates into sense. Some beams of wit on other souls may fall, Strike through and make a lucid interval; But Shadwell's genuine night admits no ray, His rising fogs prevail upon the day: Besides his goodly fabric fills the eye, And seems design'd for thoughtless majesty: Thoughtless as monarch oaks, that shade the plain, And, spread in solemn state, supinely reign. Heywood and Shirley were but types of thee, Thou last great prophet of tautology: Even I, a dunce of more renown than they, Was sent before but to prepare thy way; And coarsely clad in Norwich drugget came To teach the nations in thy greater name. My warbling lute, the lute I whilom strung When to King John of Portugal I sung, Was but the prelude to that glorious day, When thou on silver Thames did'st cut thy way, With well tim'd oars before the royal barge, Swell'd with the pride of thy celestial charge; And big with hymn, commander of an host, The like was ne'er in Epsom blankets toss'd. Methinks I see the new Arion sail, The lute still trembling underneath thy nail. At thy well sharpen'd thumb from shore to shore The treble squeaks for fear, the basses roar: Echoes from Pissing-Alley, Shadwell call, And Shadwell they resound from Aston Hall. About thy boat the little fishes throng, As at the morning toast, that floats along. Sometimes as prince of thy harmonious band Thou wield'st thy papers in thy threshing hand. St. Andre's feet ne'er kept more equal time, Not ev'n the feet of thy own Psyche's rhyme: Though they in number as in sense excel; So just, so like tautology they fell, That, pale with envy, Singleton forswore The lute and sword which he in triumph bore And vow'd he ne'er would act Villerius more. Here stopt the good old sire; and wept for joy In silent raptures of the hopeful boy. All arguments, but most his plays, persuade, That for anointed dullness he was made.

Mac Flecknoe (Satirical attack upon dramatist Thomas Shadwell--mock epic) 1682 John Dryden

Her only gift was knowing people almost by instinct, she thought, walking on. If you put her in a room with some one, up went her back like a cat's; or she purred. Devonshire House, Bath House, the house with the china cockatoo, she had seen them all lit up once; and remembered Sylvia, Fred, Sally Seton — such hosts of people; and dancing all night; and the waggons plodding past to market; and driving home across the Park. She remembered once throwing a shilling into the Serpentine. But every one remembered; what she loved was this, here, now, in front of her; the fat lady in the cab. Did it matter then, she asked herself, walking towards Bond Street, did it matter that she must inevitably cease completely; all this must go on without her; did she resent it; or did it not become consoling to believe that death ended absolutely? but that somehow in the streets of London, on the ebb and flow of things, here, there, she survived, Peter survived, lived in each other, she being part, she was positive, of the trees at home; of the house there, ugly, rambling all to bits and pieces as it was; part of people she had never met; being laid out like a mist between the people she knew best, who lifted her on their branches as she had seen the trees lift the mist, but it spread ever so far, her life, herself. But what was she dreaming as she looked into Hatchards' shop window? What was she trying to recover? What image of white dawn in the country, as she read in the book spread open: Fear no more the heat o' the sun Nor the furious winter's rages. This late age of the world's experience had bred in them all, all men and women, a well of tears. Tears and sorrows; courage and endurance; a perfectly upright and stoical bearing. Think, for example, of the woman she admired most, Lady Bexborough, opening the bazaar.

Mrs. Dalloway Virginia Woolf 1925

A few days passed away, and Catherine, though not allowing herself to suspect her friend, could not help watching her closely. The result of her observations was not agreeable. Isabella seemed an altered creature. When she saw her, indeed, surrounded only by their immediate friends in Edgar's Buildings or Pulteney Street, her change of manners was so trifling that, had it gone no farther, it might have passed unnoticed. A something of languid indifference, or of that boasted absence of mind which Catherine had never heard of before, would occasionally come across her; but had nothing worse appeared, that might only have spread a new grace and inspired a warmer interest. But when Catherine saw her in public, admitting Captain Tilney's attentions as readily as they were offered, and allowing him almost an equal share with James in her notice and smiles, the alteration became too positive to be passed over. What could be meant by such unsteady conduct, what her friend could be at, was beyond her comprehension. Isabella could not be aware of the pain she was inflicting; but it was a degree of wilful thoughtlessness which Catherine could not but resent. James was the sufferer. She saw him grave and uneasy; and however careless of his present comfort the woman might be who had given him her heart, to her it was always an object. For poor Captain Tilney too she was greatly concerned. Though his looks did not please her, his name was a passport to her goodwill, and she thought with sincere compassion of his approaching disappointment; for, in spite of what she had believed herself to overhear in the pump-room, his behaviour was so incompatible with a knowledge of Isabella's engagement that she could not, upon reflection, imagine him aware of it. He might be jealous of her brother as a rival, but if more had seemed implied, the fault must have been in her misapprehension. She wished, by a gentle remonstrance, to remind Isabella of her situation, and make her aware of this double unkindness; but for remonstrance, either opportunity or comprehension was always against her. If able to suggest a hint, Isabella could never understand it. In this distress, the intended departure of the Tilney family became her chief consolation; their journey into Gloucestershire was to take place within a few days, and Captain Tilney's removal would at least restore peace to every heart but his own. But Captain Tilney had at present no intention of removing; he was not to be of the party to Northanger; he was to continue at Bath. When Catherine knew this, her resolution was directly made. She spoke to Henry Tilney on the subject, regretting his brother's evident partiality for Miss Thorpe, and entreating him to make known her prior engagement. "My brother does know it," was Henry's answer. "Does he? Then why does he stay here?" He made no reply, and was beginning to talk of something else; but she eagerly continued, "Why do not you persuade him to go away? The longer he stays, the worse it will be for him at last. Pray advise him for his own sake, and for everybody's sake, to leave Bath directly. Absence will in time make him comfortable again; but he can have no hope here, and it is only staying to be miserable." Henry smiled and said, "I am sure my brother would not wish to do that." "Then you will persuade him to go away?" "Persuasion is not at command; but pardon me, if I cannot even endeavour to persuade him. I have myself told him that Miss Thorpe is engaged. He knows what he is about, and must be his own master." "No, he does not know what he is about," cried Catherine; "he does not know the pain he is giving my brother. Not that James has ever told me so, but I am sure he is very uncomfortable." "And are you sure it is my brother's doing?" "Yes, very sure." "Is it my brother's attentions to Miss Thorpe, or Miss Thorpe's admission of them, that gives the pain?" "Is not it the same thing?" "I think Mr. Morland would acknowledge a difference. No man is offended by another man's admiration of the woman he loves; it is the woman only who can make it a torment." Catherine blushed for her friend, and said, "Isabella is wrong. But I am sure she cannot mean to torment, for she is very much attached to my brother. She has been in love with him ever since they first met, and while my father's consent was uncertain, she fretted herself almost into a fever. You know she must be attached to him." "I understand: she is in love with James, and flirts with Frederick." "Oh! no, not flirts. A woman in love with one man cannot flirt with another." "It is probable that she will neither love so well, nor flirt so well, as she might do either singly. The gentlemen must each give up a little." After a short pause, Catherine resumed with, "Then you do not believe Isabella so very much attached to my brother?" "I can have no opinion on that subject." "But what can your brother mean? If he knows her engagement, what can he mean by his behaviour?" "You are a very close questioner." "Am I? I only ask what I want to be told." "But do you only ask what I can be expected to tell?" "Yes, I think so; for you must know your brother's heart." "My brother's heart, as you term it, on the present occasion, I assure you I can only guess at." "Well?" "Well! Nay, if it is to be guesswork, let us all guess for ourselves. To be guided by second-hand conjecture is pitiful. The premises are before you. My brother is a lively and perhaps sometimes a thoughtless young man; he has had about a week's acquaintance with your friend, and he has known her engagement almost as long as he has known her."

Northanger Abbey Jane Austen 1803

In England, from the peculiar circumstances of our political history, though the yoke of opinion is perhaps heavier, that of law is lighter, than in most other countries of Europe; and there is considerable jealousy of direct interference, by the legislative or the executive power, with private conduct; not so much from any just regard for the independence of the individual, as from the still subsisting habit of looking on the government as representing an opposite interest to the public. The majority have not yet learnt to feel the power of the government their power, or its opinions their opinions. When they do so, individual liberty will probably be as much exposed to invasion from the government, as it already is from public opinion. But, as yet, there is a considerable amount of feeling ready to be called forth against any attempt of the law to control individuals in things in which they have not hitherto been accustomed to be controlled by it;[Pg 16] and this with very little discrimination as to whether the matter is, or is not, within the legitimate sphere of legal control; insomuch that the feeling, highly salutary on the whole, is perhaps quite as often misplaced as well grounded in the particular instances of its application. There is, in fact, no recognised principle by which the propriety or impropriety of government interference is customarily tested. People decide according to their personal preferences. Some, whenever they see any good to be done, or evil to be remedied, would willingly instigate the government to undertake the business; while others prefer to bear almost any amount of social evil, rather than add one to the departments of human interests amenable to governmental control. And men range themselves on one or the other side in any particular case, according to this general direction of their sentiments; or according to the degree of interest which they feel in the particular thing which it is proposed that the government should do, or according to the belief they entertain that the government would, or would not, do it in the manner they prefer; but very rarely on account of any opinion to which they consistently adhere, as to what things are fit to be done by a government. And it seems to me that in[Pg 17] consequence of this absence of rule or principle, one side is at present as often wrong as the other; the interference of government is, with about equal frequency, improperly invoked and improperly condemned. The object of this Essay is to assert one very simple principle, as entitled to govern absolutely the dealings of society with the individual in the way of compulsion and control, whether the means used be physical force in the form of legal penalties, or the moral coercion of public opinion. That principle is, that the sole end for which mankind are warranted, individually or collectively, in interfering with the liberty of action of any of their number, is self-protection. That the only purpose for which power can be rightfully exercised over any member of a civilised community, against his will, is to prevent harm to others. His own good, either physical or moral, is not a sufficient warrant. He cannot rightfully be compelled to do or forbear because it will be better for him to do so, because it will make him happier, because, in the opinions of others, to do so would be wise, or even right. These are good reasons for remonstrating with him, or reasoning with him, or persuading him, or entreating him, but not for compelling him, or visiting him with[Pg 18] any evil in case he do otherwise. To justify that, the conduct from which it is desired to deter him must be calculated to produce evil to some one else. The only part of the conduct of any one, for which he is amenable to society, is that which concerns others. In the part which merely concerns himself, his independence is, of right, absolute. Over himself, over his own body and mind, the individual is sovereign.

On Liberty John Stuart Mill 1859

What, then, is the rightful limit to the sovereignty of the individual over himself? Where does the authority of society begin? How much of human life should be assigned to individuality, and how much to society? Each will receive its proper share, if each has that which more particularly concerns it. To individuality should belong the part of life in which it is chiefly the individual that is interested; to society, the part which chiefly interests society. Though society is not founded on a contract, and though no good purpose is answered by inventing a contract in order to deduce social obligations from it, every one who receives the protection of society owes a return for the benefit, and the fact of living in society renders it indispensable that each should be bound to[Pg 141] observe a certain line of conduct towards the rest. This conduct consists, first, in not injuring the interests of one another; or rather certain interests which, either by express legal provision or by tacit understanding, ought to be considered as rights; and secondly, in each person's bearing his share (to be fixed on some equitable principle) of the labours and sacrifices incurred for defending the society or its members from injury and molestation. These conditions society is justified in enforcing, at all costs to those who endeavour to withhold fulfilment. Nor is this all that society may do. The acts of an individual may be hurtful to others, or wanting in due consideration for their welfare, without going the length of violating any of their constituted rights. The offender may then be justly punished by opinion though not by law. As soon as any part of a person's conduct affects prejudicially the interests of others, society has jurisdiction over it, and the question whether the general welfare will or will not be promoted by interfering with it, becomes open to discussion. But there is no room for entertaining any such question when a person's conduct affects the interests of no persons besides himself, or needs not affect them unless they like (all the persons concerned being of full age, and[Pg 142] the ordinary amount of understanding). In all such cases there should be perfect freedom, legal and social, to do the action and stand the consequences.

On Liberty John Stuart Mill 1859

The object of this Essay is to explain as clearly as I am able, the grounds of an opinion which I have held from the very earliest period when I had formed any opinions at all on social or political matters, and which, instead of being weakened or modified, has been constantly growing stronger by the progress of reflection and the experience of life: That the principle which regulates the existing social relations between the two sexes—the legal subordination of one sex to the other—is wrong in itself, and now one of the chief hindrances to human improvement; and that it ought to be replaced by a principle of perfect equality, admitting no power or privilege on the one side, nor disability on the other. The very words necessary to express the task I have undertaken, show how arduous it is. But it would be a mistake to suppose that the difficulty of the case must lie in the insufficiency or obscurity of the grounds of reason on which [Pg 2] my conviction rests. The difficulty is that which exists in all cases in which there is a mass of feeling to be contended against. So long as an opinion is strongly rooted in the feelings, it gains rather than loses in stability by having a preponderating weight of argument against it. For if it were accepted as a result of argument, the refutation of the argument might shake the solidity of the conviction; but when it rests solely on feeling, the worse it fares in argumentative contest, the more persuaded its adherents are that their feeling must have some deeper ground, which the arguments do not reach; and while the feeling remains, it is always throwing up fresh intrenchments of argument to repair any breach made in the old. And there are so many causes tending to make the feelings connected with this subject the most intense and most deeply-rooted of all those which gather round and protect old institutions and customs, that we need not wonder to find them as yet less undermined and loosened than any of the rest by the progress of the great modern spiritual and social transition; nor suppose that the barbarisms to which men cling longest must be less barbarisms than those which they earlier shake off. In every respect the burthen is hard on those who attack an almost universal opinion. They must be very fortunate as well as unusually [Pg 3] capable if they obtain a hearing at all. They have more difficulty in obtaining a trial, than any other litigants have in getting a verdict. If they do extort a hearing, they are subjected to a set of logical requirements totally different from those exacted from other people. In all other cases, the burthen of proof is supposed to lie with the affirmative. If a person is charged with a murder, it rests with those who accuse him to give proof of his guilt, not with himself to prove his innocence. If there is a difference of opinion about the reality of any alleged historical event, in which the feelings of men in general are not much interested, as the Siege of Troy for example, those who maintain that the event took place are expected to produce their proofs, before those who take the other side can be required to say anything; and at no time are these required to do more than show that the evidence produced by the others is of no value. Again, in practical matters, the burthen of proof is supposed to be with those who are against liberty; who contend for any restriction or prohibition; either any limitation of the general freedom of human action, or any disqualification or disparity of privilege affecting one person or kind of persons, as compared with others. The à priori presumption is in favour of freedom and impartiality. It is held that there should [Pg 4] be no restraint not required by the general good, and that the law should be no respecter of persons, but should treat all alike, save where dissimilarity of treatment is required by positive reasons, either of justice or of policy. But of none of these rules of evidence will the benefit be allowed to those who maintain the opinion I profess. It is useless for me to say that those who maintain the doctrine that men have a right to command and women are under an obligation to obey, or that men are fit for government and women unfit, are on the affirmative side of the question, and that they are bound to show positive evidence for the assertions, or submit to their rejection. It is equally unavailing for me to say that those who deny to women any freedom or privilege rightly allowed to men, having the double presumption against them that they are opposing freedom and recommending partiality, must be held to the strictest proof of their case, and unless their success be such as to exclude all doubt, the judgment ought to go against them. These would be thought good pleas in any common case; but they will not be thought so in this instance. Before I could hope to make any impression, I should be expected not only to answer all that has ever been said by those who take the other side of the question, but to imagine all that could be said by them—to find them [Pg 5] in reasons, as well as answer all I find: and besides refuting all arguments for the affirmative, I shall be called upon for invincible positive arguments to prove a negative. And even if I could do all this, and leave the opposite party with a host of unanswered arguments against them, and not a single unrefuted one on their side, I should be thought to have done little; for a cause supported on the one hand by universal usage, and on the other by so great a preponderance of popular sentiment, is supposed to have a presumption in its favour, superior to any conviction which an appeal to reason has power to produce in any intellects but those of a high class.

On the Subjection of Women John Stuart Mill 1869

If thou beest he; But O how fall'n! how chang'd From him, who in the happy Realms of Light Cloth'd with transcendent brightness didst out-shine Myriads though bright: If he whom mutual league, United thoughts and counsels, equal hope And hazard in the Glorious Enterprize, Joynd with me once, now misery hath joynd In equal ruin: into what Pit thou seest From what highth fall'n, so much the stronger prov'd He with his Thunder: and till then who knew The force of those dire Arms? yet not for those, Nor what the Potent Victor in his rage Can else inflict, do I repent or change, Though chang'd in outward lustre; that fixt mind And high disdain, from sence of injur'd merit, That with the mightiest rais'd me to contend, And to the fierce contention brought along Innumerable force of Spirits arm'd That durst dislike his reign, and me preferring, His utmost power with adverse power oppos'd In dubious Battel on the Plains of Heav'n, And shook his throne. What though the field be lost? All is not lost; the unconquerable Will, And study of revenge, immortal hate, And courage never to submit or yield: And what is else not to be overcome? That Glory never shall his wrath or might Extort from me. To bow and sue for grace With suppliant knee, and deifie his power, Who from the terrour of this Arm so late Doubted his Empire, that were low indeed, That were an ignominy and shame beneath This downfall; since by Fate the strength of Gods And this Empyreal substance cannot fail, Since through experience of this great event In Arms not worse, in foresight much advanc't, We may with more successful hope resolve To wage by force or guile eternal Warr Irreconcileable, to our grand Foe, Who now triumphs, and in th' excess of joy Sole reigning holds the Tyranny of Heav'n. So spake th' Apostate Angel, though in pain, Vaunting aloud, but rackt with deep despare: And him thus answer'd soon his bold Compeer.

Paradise Lost: Book 1 John Milton 1674

And came up on their knees to kiss his seals; He cozened them with his brevet dimmed their eyes, And with his parchment got his rings and brooches: Thus they gave their gold gluttons to keep. And lend it to such louts as follow lechery. If the bishop were holy and worth both his ears, His seal should not be sent to deceive the people. But a word 'gainst bishop the knave never preacheth. Parish priest and pardoner share all the silver That the parish poor would have if he were not there. Parsons and parish priests complained to the bishop That their parishes were poor since the pestilence time, And asked leave and licence in London to dwell And sing requiems for stipends for silver is sweet. Bishops and bachelors both masters and doctors, That have charge under Christ and the tonsure as token And sign that they should shrive their parishioners, Preach and pray for them and feed the poor, These lodge in London in Lent and at other times too. Some serve the king and his silver count In Chequer and Chancery courts making claim for his debts Of wards and of wardmotes waifs and estrays. And some serve as servants to lords and ladies, And instead of stewards sit in session to judge. Their mass and their matins their canonical hours, Are said undevoutly I fear at the last Lest Christ in his council accurse will full many. I perceived of the power that Peter had to keep, To bind and to unbind as the Book telleth, How he left it with love as our Lord ordained, Amongst four virtues the best of all virtues, That cardinal are called for they hinge the gates Where Christ is in glory to close and to shut And to open it to them and show heavenly bliss. But of cardinals at Rome that received that name And power presumed in them a pope to make, That they have Peter's power deny it I will not; For to love and learning that election belongeth, Therefore I can, and yet cannot of that court speak more. Then came there a king with knighthood before him,

Piers Plowman (prologue) William Langland ca. 1380 (Same time as Canterbury Tales however, unlike CT, written in alliterative verse.)

Then I stepped to him that plucked him out, and said, Sir, wherefore, since over this place is the way from the City of Destruction to yonder gate, is it that this plat is not mended, that poor travellers might go thither with more security? And he said unto me, This miry slough is such a place as cannot be mended; it is the descent whither the scum and filth that attends conviction for sin doth continually run, and therefore it is called the Slough of Despond; for still, as the sinner is awakened about his lost condition, there ariseth in his soul many fears, and doubts, and discouraging apprehensions, which all of them get together, and settle in this place. And this is the reason of the badness of this ground. {34} It is not the pleasure of the King that this place should remain so bad. His labourers also have, by the direction of His Majesty's surveyors, been for above these sixteen hundred years employed about this patch of ground, if perhaps it might have been mended: yea, and to my knowledge, said he, here have been swallowed up at least twenty thousand cart-loads, yea, millions of wholesome instructions, that have at all seasons been brought from all places of the King's dominions, and they that can tell, say they are the best materials to make good ground of the place; if so be, it might have been mended, but it is the Slough of Despond still, and so will be when they have done what they can. {35} True, there are, by the direction of the Law-giver, certain good and substantial steps, placed even through the very midst of this slough; but at such time as this place doth much spew out its filth, as it doth against change of weather, these steps are hardly seen; or, if they be, men, through the dizziness of their heads, step beside, and then they are bemired to purpose, notwithstanding the steps be there; but the ground is good when they are once got in at the gate.

Pilgrim's Progress John Bunyan 1678

When at the first I took my pen in hand Thus for to write, I did not understand That I at all should make a little book In such a mode; nay, I had undertook To make another; which, when almost done, Before I was aware, I this begun. And thus it was: I, writing of the way And race of saints, in this our gospel day, Fell suddenly into an allegory About their journey, and the way to glory, In more than twenty things which I set down. This done, I twenty more had in my crown; And they again began to multiply, Like sparks that from the coals of fire do fly. Nay, then, thought I, if that you breed so fast, I'll put you by yourselves, lest you at last Should prove ad infinitum, and eat out The book that I already am about. Well, so I did; but yet I did not think To shew to all the world my pen and ink In such a mode; I only thought to make I knew not what; nor did I undertake Thereby to please my neighbour: no, not I; I did it my own self to gratify. {2} Neither did I but vacant seasons spend In this my scribble; nor did I intend But to divert myself in doing this From worser thoughts which make me do amiss.

Pilgrim's Progress John Bunyan 1678

The Poet, of whose works I have undertaken the revision, may now begin to assume the dignity of an ancient, and claim the privilege of established fame and prescriptive veneration. He has long outlived his century, the term commonly fixed as the test of literary merit. Whatever advantages he might once derive from personal allusions, local customs, or temporary opinions, have for many years been lost; and every topick of merriment or motive of sorrow, which the modes of artificial life afforded him, now only obscure the scenes which they once illuminated. The effects of favour and competition are at an end; the tradition of his friendships and his enmities has perished; his works support no opinion with arguments, nor supply any faction with invectives; they can neither indulge vanity nor gratify malignity, but are read without any other reason than the desire of pleasure, and are therefore praised only as pleasure is obtained; yet, thus unassisted by interest or passion, they have past through variations of taste and changes of manners, and, as they devolved from one generation to another, have received new honours at every transmission. But because human judgment, though it be gradually gaining upon certainty, never becomes infallible; and approbation, though long continued, may yet be only the approbation of prejudice or fashion; it is proper to inquire, by what peculiarities of excellence Shakespeare has gained and kept the favour of his countrymen. Nothing can please many, and please long, but just representations of general nature. Particular manners can be known to few, and therefore few only can judge how nearly they are copied. The irregular combinations of fanciful invention may delight a-while, by that novelty of which the common satiety of life sends us all in quest; but the pleasures of sudden wonder are soon exhausted, and the mind can only repose on the stability of truth. Shakespeare is above all writers, at least above all modern writers, the poet of nature; the poet that holds up to his readers a faithful mirrour of manners and of life. His characters are not modified by the customs of particular places, unpractised by the rest of the world; by the peculiarities of studies or professions, which can operate but upon small numbers; or by the accidents of transient fashions or temporary opinions: they are the genuine progeny of common humanity, such as the world will always supply, and observation will always find. His persons act and speak by the influence of those general passions and principles by which all minds are agitated, and the whole system of life is continued in motion. In the writings of other poets a character is too often an individual; in those of Shakespeare it is commonly a species.

Preface to Shakespeare Samuel Johnson 1765

Elizabeth had the satisfaction of receiving an answer to her letter as soon as she possibly could. She was no sooner in possession of it than, hurrying into the little copse, where she was least likely to be interrupted, she sat down on one of the benches and prepared to be happy; for the length of the letter convinced her that it did not contain a denial. "Gracechurch street, Sept. 6. "MY DEAR NIECE, "I have just received your letter, and shall devote this whole morning to answering it, as I foresee that a little writing will not comprise what I have to tell you. I must confess myself surprised by your application; I did not expect it from you. Don't think me angry, however, for I only mean to let you know that I had not imagined such inquiries to be necessary on your side. If you do not choose to understand me, forgive my impertinence. Your uncle is as much surprised as I am—and nothing but the belief of your being a party concerned would have allowed him to act as he has done. But if you are really innocent and ignorant, I must be more explicit. "On the very day of my coming home from Longbourn, your uncle had a most unexpected visitor. Mr. Darcy called, and was shut up with him several hours. It was all over before I arrived; so my curiosity was not so dreadfully racked as yours seems to have been. He came to tell Mr. Gardiner that he had found out where your sister and Mr. Wickham were, and that he had seen and talked with them both; Wickham repeatedly, Lydia once. From what I can collect, he left Derbyshire only one day after ourselves, and came to town with the resolution of hunting for them. The motive professed was his conviction of its being owing to himself that Wickham's worthlessness had not been so well known as to make it impossible for any young woman of character to love or confide in him. He generously imputed the whole to his mistaken pride, and confessed that he had before thought it beneath him to lay his private actions open to the world. His character was to speak for itself. He called it, therefore, his duty to step forward, and endeavour to remedy an evil which had been brought on by himself. If he had another motive, I am sure it would never disgrace him. He had been some days in town, before he was able to discover them; but he had something to direct his search, which was more than we had; and the consciousness of this was another reason for his resolving to follow us. "There is a lady, it seems, a Mrs. Younge, who was some time ago governess to Miss Darcy, and was dismissed from her charge on some cause of disapprobation, though he did not say what. She then took a large house in Edward-street, and has since maintained herself by letting lodgings. This Mrs. Younge was, he knew, intimately acquainted with Wickham; and he went to her for intelligence of him as soon as he got to town. But it was two or three days before he could get from her what he wanted. She would not betray her trust, I suppose, without bribery and corruption, for she really did know where her friend was to be found. Wickham indeed had gone to her on their first arrival in London, and had she been able to receive them into her house, they would have taken up their abode with her. At length, however, our kind friend procured the wished-for direction. They were in —— street. He saw Wickham, and afterwards insisted on seeing Lydia. His first object with her, he acknowledged, had been to persuade her to quit her present disgraceful situation, and return to her friends as soon as they could be prevailed on to receive her, offering his assistance, as far as it would go. But he found Lydia absolutely resolved on remaining where she was. She cared for none of her friends; she wanted no help of his; she would not hear of leaving Wickham. She was sure they should be married some time or other, and it did not much signify when. Since such were her feelings, it only remained, he thought, to secure and expedite a marriage, which, in his very first conversation with Wickham, he easily learnt had never been his design. He confessed himself obliged to leave the regiment, on account of some debts of honour, which were very pressing; and scrupled not to lay all the ill-consequences of Lydia's flight on her own folly alone. He meant to resign his commission immediately; and as to his future situation, he could conjecture very little about it. He must go somewhere, but he did not know where, and he knew he should have nothing to live on.

Pride and Prejudice Jane Austen 1813

t is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife. However little known the feelings or views of such a man may be on his first entering a neighbourhood, this truth is so well fixed in the minds of the surrounding families, that he is considered the rightful property of some one or other of their daughters. "My dear Mr. Bennet," said his lady to him one day, "have you heard that Netherfield Park is let at last?" Mr. Bennet replied that he had not. "But it is," returned she; "for Mrs. Long has just been here, and she told me all about it." Mr. Bennet made no answer. "Do you not want to know who has taken it?" cried his wife impatiently. "You want to tell me, and I have no objection to hearing it." This was invitation enough. "Why, my dear, you must know, Mrs. Long says that Netherfield is taken by a young man of large fortune from the north of England; that he came down on Monday in a chaise and four to see the place, and was so much delighted with it, that he agreed with Mr. Morris immediately; that he is to take possession before Michaelmas, and some of his servants are to be in the house by the end of next week." "What is his name?" "Bingley." "Is he married or single?" "Oh! Single, my dear, to be sure! A single man of large fortune; four or five thousand a year. What a fine thing for our girls!" "How so? How can it affect them?" "My dear Mr. Bennet," replied his wife, "how can you be so tiresome! You must know that I am thinking of his marrying one of them." "Is that his design in settling here?" "Design! Nonsense, how can you talk so! But it is very likely that he may fall in love with one of them, and therefore you must visit him as soon as he comes." "I see no occasion for that. You and the girls may go, or you may send them by themselves, which perhaps will be still better, for as you are as handsome as any of them, Mr. Bingley may like you the best of the party." "My dear, you flatter me. I certainly have had my share of beauty, but I do not pretend to be anything extraordinary now. When a woman has five grown-up daughters, she ought to give over thinking of her own beauty." "In such cases, a woman has not often much beauty to think of." "But, my dear, you must indeed go and see Mr. Bingley when he comes into the neighbourhood." "It is more than I engage for, I assure you." "But consider your daughters. Only think what an establishment it would be for one of them. Sir William and Lady Lucas are determined to go, merely on that account, for in general, you know, they visit no newcomers. Indeed you must go, for it will be impossible for us to visit him if you do not." "You are over-scrupulous, surely. I dare say Mr. Bingley will be very glad to see you; and I will send a few lines by you to assure him of my hearty consent to his marrying whichever he chooses of the girls; though I must throw in a good word for my little Lizzy." "I desire you will do no such thing. Lizzy is not a bit better than the others; and I am sure she is not half so handsome as Jane, nor half so good-humoured as Lydia. But you are always giving her the preference." "They have none of them much to recommend them," replied he; "they are all silly and ignorant like other girls; but Lizzy has something more of quickness than her sisters." "Mr. Bennet, how can you abuse your own children in such a way? You take delight in vexing me. You have no compassion for my poor nerves." "You mistake me, my dear. I have a high respect for your nerves. They are my old friends. I have heard you mention them with consideration these last twenty years at least." "Ah, you do not know what I suffer." "But I hope you will get over it, and live to see many young men of four thousand a year come into the neighbourhood." "It will be no use to us, if twenty such should come, since you will not visit them." "Depend upon it, my dear, that when there are twenty, I will visit them all." Mr. Bennet was so odd a mixture of quick parts, sarcastic humour, reserve, and caprice, that the experience of three-and-twenty years had been insufficient to make his wife understand his character. Her mind was less difficult to develop. She was a woman of mean understanding, little information, and uncertain temper. When she was discontented, she fancied herself nervous. The business of her life was to get her daughters married; its solace was visiting and news.

Pride and Prejudice Jane Austen 1813

Ye who listen with credulity to the whispers of fancy, and pursue with eagerness the phantoms of hope; who expect that age will perform the promises of youth, and that the deficiencies of the present day will be supplied by the morrow, attend to the history of Rasselas, Prince of Abyssinia. Rasselas was the fourth son of the mighty Emperor in whose dominions the father of waters begins his course—whose bounty pours down the streams of plenty, and scatters over the world the harvests of Egypt. According to the custom which has descended from age to age among the monarchs of the torrid zone, Rasselas was confined in a private palace, with the other sons and daughters of Abyssinian royalty, till the order of succession should call him to the throne. The place which the wisdom or policy of antiquity had destined for the residence of the Abyssinian princes was a spacious valley in the kingdom of Amhara, surrounded on every side by mountains, of which the summits overhang the middle part. The only passage by which it could be entered was a cavern that passed under a rock, of which it had long been disputed whether it was the work of nature or of human industry. The outlet of the cavern was concealed by a thick wood, and the mouth which opened into the valley was closed with gates of iron, forged by the artificers of ancient days, so massive that no man, without the help of engines, could open or shut them. From the mountains on every side rivulets descended that filled all the valley with verdure and fertility, and formed a lake in the middle, inhabited by fish of every species, and frequented by every fowl whom nature has taught to dip the wing in water. This lake discharged its superfluities by a stream, which entered a dark cleft of the mountain on the northern side, and fell with dreadful noise from precipice to precipice till it was heard no more. The sides of the mountains were covered with trees, the banks of the brooks were diversified with flowers; every blast shook spices from the rocks, and every month dropped fruits upon the ground. All animals that bite the grass or browse the shrubs, whether wild or tame, wandered in this extensive circuit, secured from beasts of prey by the mountains which confined them. On one part were flocks and herds feeding in the pastures, on another all the beasts of chase frisking in the lawns, the sprightly kid was bounding on the rocks, the subtle monkey frolicking in the trees, and the solemn elephant reposing in the shade. All the diversities of the world were brought together, the blessings of nature were collected, and its evils extracted and excluded.

Rasselas PRINCE OF ABYSSINIA Samuel Johnson 1759

The family of Dashwood had long been settled in Sussex. Their estate was large, and their residence was at Norland Park, in the centre of their property, where, for many generations, they had lived in so respectable a manner as to engage the general good opinion of their surrounding acquaintance. The late owner of this estate was a single man, who lived to a very advanced age, and who for many years of his life, had a constant companion and housekeeper in his sister. But her death, which happened ten years before his own, produced a great alteration in his home; for to supply her loss, he invited and received into his house the family of his nephew Mr. Henry Dashwood, the legal inheritor of the Norland estate, and the person to whom he intended to bequeath it. In the society of his nephew and niece, and their children, the old Gentleman's days were comfortably spent. His attachment to them all increased. The constant attention of Mr. and Mrs. Henry Dashwood to his wishes, which proceeded not merely from interest, but from goodness of heart, gave him every degree of solid comfort which his age could receive; and the cheerfulness of the children added a relish to his existence. By a former marriage, Mr. Henry Dashwood had one son: by his present lady, three daughters. The son, a steady respectable young man, was amply provided for by the fortune of his mother, which had been large, and half of which devolved on him on his coming of age. By his own marriage, likewise, which happened soon afterwards, he added to his wealth. To him therefore the succession to the Norland estate was not so really important as to his sisters; for their fortune, independent of what might arise to them from their father's inheriting that property, could be but small. Their mother had nothing, and their father only seven thousand pounds in his own disposal; for the remaining moiety of his first wife's fortune was also secured to her child, and he had only a life-interest in it. [2] The old gentleman died: his will was read, and like almost every other will, gave as much disappointment as pleasure. He was neither so unjust, nor so ungrateful, as to leave his estate from his nephew; but he left it to him on such terms as destroyed half the value of the bequest. Mr. Dashwood had wished for it more for the sake of his wife and daughters than for himself or his son; but to his son, and his son's son, a child of four years old, it was secured, in such a way, as to leave to himself no power of providing for those who were most dear to him, and who most needed a provision by any charge on the estate, or by any sale of its valuable woods. The whole was tied up for the benefit of this child, who, in occasional visits with his father and mother at Norland, had so far gained on the affections of his uncle, by such attractions as are by no means unusual in children of two or three years old; an imperfect articulation, an earnest desire of having his own way, many cunning tricks, and a great deal of noise, as to outweigh all the value of all the attention which, for years, he had received from his niece and her daughters. He meant not to be unkind, however, and, as a mark of his affection for the three girls, he left them a thousand pounds a-piece.

Sense & Sensibility Jane Austen 1902

When the particulars of this conversation were repeated by Miss Dashwood to her sister, as they very soon were, the effect on her was not entirely such as the former had hoped to see. Not that Marianne appeared to distrust the truth of any part of it, for she listened to it all with the most steady and submissive attention, made neither objection nor remark, attempted no vindication of Willoughby, and seemed to show by her tears that she felt it to be impossible. But though this behaviour assured Elinor that the conviction of this guilt was carried home to her mind, though she saw with satisfaction the effect of it, in her no longer avoiding Colonel Brandon when he called, in her speaking to him, even voluntarily speaking, with a kind of compassionate respect, and though she saw her spirits less violently irritated than before, she did not see her less wretched. Her mind did become settled, but it was settled in a gloomy dejection. She felt the loss of Willoughby's character yet more heavily than she had felt the loss of his heart; his seduction and desertion of Miss Williams, the misery of that poor girl, and the doubt of what his designs might once have been on herself, preyed altogether so much on her spirits, that she could not bring herself to speak of what she felt even to Elinor; and, brooding over her sorrows in silence, gave more pain to her sister than could have been communicated by the most open and most frequent confession of them. To give the feelings or the language of Mrs. Dashwood on receiving and answering Elinor's letter would be only to give a repetition of what her daughters had already felt and said; of a disappointment hardly less painful than Marianne's, and an indignation even greater than Elinor's. Long letters from her, quickly succeeding each other, arrived to tell all that she suffered and thought; to express her anxious solicitude for Marianne, and entreat she would bear up with fortitude under this misfortune. Bad indeed must the nature of Marianne's affliction be, when her mother could talk of fortitude! mortifying and humiliating must be the origin of those regrets, which she could wish her not to indulge![184] Against the interest of her own individual comfort, Mrs. Dashwood had determined that it would be better for Marianne to be any where, at that time, than at Barton, where every thing within her view would be bringing back the past in the strongest and most afflicting manner, by constantly placing Willoughby before her, such as she had always seen him there. She recommended it to her daughters, therefore, by all means not to shorten their visit to Mrs. Jennings; the length of which, though never exactly fixed, had been expected by all to comprise at least five or six weeks. A variety of occupations, of objects, and of company, which could not be procured at Barton, would be inevitable there, and might yet, she hoped, cheat Marianne, at times, into some interest beyond herself, and even into some amusement, much as the ideas of both might now be spurned by her. From all danger of seeing Willoughby again, her mother considered her to be at least equally safe in town as in the country, since his acquaintance must now be dropped by all who called themselves her friends. Design could never bring them in each other's way: negligence could never leave them exposed to a surprise; and chance had less in its favour in the crowd of London than even in the retirement of Barton, where it might force him before her while paying that visit at Allenham on his marriage, which Mrs. Dashwood, from foreseeing at first as a probable event, had brought herself to expect as a certain one.

Sense & Sensibility Jane Austen 1902

Beside the springs of Dove, A Maid whom there were none to praise And very few to love: A violet by a mossy stone Half hidden from the eye! —Fair as a star, when only one Is shining in the sky. She lived unknown, and few could know When Lucy ceased to be; But she is in her grave, and, oh, The difference to me!

She Dwelt among the Untrodden Ways BY William Wordsworth 1800

Soon as the siege and assault had ceased at Troy, the burg broken and burnt to brands and ashes, the traitor who trammels of treason there wrought was tried for his treachery, the foulest on earth. It was Aeneas the noble and his high kin who then subdued provinces, lords they became, well-nigh of all the wealth in the Western Isles: forth rich Romulus to Rome rapidly came, with great business that burg he builds up first, and names it with his name, as now it has; Ticius to Tuscany, and townships begins; Langobard in Lombardy lifts up homes; and fared over the French flood Felix Brutus on many banks all broad Britain he settles then, where war and wreck and wonder betimes have worked within, and oft both bliss and blunder have held sway swiftly since. And when this Britain was built by this baron rich, bold men were bred therein, of battle beloved, in many a troubled time turmoil that wrought. More flames on this fold have fallen here oft than any other I know of, since that same time. But of all that here built, of Britain the kings, ever was Arthur highest, as I have heard tell. And so of earnest adventure I aim to show, that astonishes sight as some men do hold it, an outstanding action of Arthur's wonders. If you will list to this lay but a little while, I'll tell it straight, as I in town heard it, with tongue; as it was said and spoken in story staunch and strong, with linked letters loaded, as in this land so long. This king lay at Camelot nigh on Christmas with many lovely lords, of leaders the best, reckoning of the Round Table all the rich brethren, with right ripe revel and reckless mirth. There tourneyed tykes by times full many, jousted full jollily these gentle knights, then carried to court, their carols to make. For there the feast was alike full fifteen days, with all the meat and mirth men could devise: such clamour and glee glorious to hear, dear din in the daylight, dancing of nights; all was happiness high in halls and chambers with lords and ladies, as liked them all best. With all that's well in the world were they together, the knights best known under the Christ Himself, and the loveliest ladies that ever life honoured, and he the comeliest king that the court rules. For all were fair folk and in their first age still, the happiest under heaven, king noblest in his will; that it were hard to reckon so hardy a host on hill. While New Year was so young it was new come in, that day double on the dais was the dole served, for the king was come with knights into the hall, and chanting in the chapel had chimed to an end. Loud cry was there cast of clerics and others, Noel nurtured anew, and named full oft; and see the rich run forth to render presents, yelled their gifts on high, yield them to hand, argued busily about those same gifts. Ladies laughed out loud, though they had lost, while he that won was not wrath, that you'll know. All this mirth they made at the meal time. When they had washed well they went to be seated, the best of the barons above, as it seemed best; with Guinevere, full gaily, gracing their midst, dressed on the dais there, adorned all about - splendid silk by her sides, and sheer above of true Toulouse, of Tartar tapestries plenty, that were embroidered, bright with the best gems that might be price-proved with pennies any a day. the comeliest to descry glanced there with eyen grey; a seemlier ever to the sight, sooth might no man say.

Sir Gawain and the Green Knight ca. 1380

MYCETES. Brother Cosroe, I find myself agriev'd; Yet insufficient to express the same, For it requires a great and thundering speech: Good brother, tell the cause unto my lords; I know you have a better wit than I. COSROE. Unhappy Persia,—that in former age Hast been the seat of mighty conquerors, That, in their prowess and their policies, Have triumph'd over Afric, 5 and the bounds Of Europe where the sun dares scarce appear For freezing meteors and congealed cold,— Now to be rul'd and govern'd by a man At whose birth-day Cynthia with Saturn join'd, And Jove, the Sun, and Mercury denied To shed their 6 influence in his fickle brain! Now Turks and Tartars shake their swords at thee, Meaning to mangle all thy provinces. MYCETES. Brother, I see your meaning well enough, And through 7 your planets I perceive you think I am not wise enough to be a king: But I refer me to my noblemen, That know my wit, and can be witnesses. I might command you to be slain for this,— Meander, might I not? MEANDER. Not for so small a fault, my sovereign lord. MYCETES. I mean it not, but yet I know I might.— Yet live; yea, live; Mycetes wills it so.— Meander, thou, my faithful counsellor, Declare the cause of my conceived grief, Which is, God knows, about that Tamburlaine, That, like a fox in midst of harvest-time, Doth prey upon my flocks of passengers; And, as I hear, doth mean to pull my plumes: Therefore 'tis good and meet for to be wise. MEANDER. Oft have I heard your majesty complain Of Tamburlaine, that sturdy Scythian thief, That robs your merchants of Persepolis Trading by land unto the Western Isles, And in your confines with his lawless train Daily commits incivil 8 outrages, Hoping (misled by dreaming prophecies) To reign in Asia, and with barbarous arms To make himself the monarch of the East: But, ere he march in Asia, or display His vagrant ensign in the Persian fields, Your grace hath taken order by Theridamas, Charg'd with a thousand horse, to apprehend And bring him captive to your highness' throne. MYCETES. Full true thou speak'st, and like thyself, my lord, Whom I may term a Damon for thy love: Therefore 'tis best, if so it like you all, To send my thousand horse incontinent 9 To apprehend that paltry Scythian. How like you this, my honourable lords? Is it not a kingly resolution? COSROE. It cannot choose, because it comes from you. MYCETES. Then hear thy charge, valiant Theridamas, The chiefest 10 captain of Mycetes' host, The hope of Persia, and the very legs Whereon our state doth lean as on a staff, That holds us up and foils our neighbour foes: Thou shalt be leader of this thousand horse, Whose foaming gall with rage and high disdain Have sworn the death of wicked Tamburlaine. Go frowning forth; but come thou smiling home, As did Sir Paris with the Grecian dame: Return with speed; time passeth swift away; Our life is frail, and we may die to-day. THERIDAMAS. Before the moon renew her borrow'd light, Doubt not, my lord and gracious sovereign, But Tamburlaine and that Tartarian rout 11 Shall either perish by our warlike hands, Or plead for mercy at your highness' feet. MYCETES. Go, stout Theridamas; thy words are swords, And with thy looks thou conquerest all thy foes. I long to see thee back return from thence, That I may view these milk-white steeds of mine All loaden with the heads of killed men, And, from their knees even to their hoofs below, Besmear'd with blood that makes a dainty show. THERIDAMAS. Then now, my lord, I humbly take my leave. MYCETES. Theridamas, farewell ten thousand times. [Exit THERIDAMAS.] Ah, Menaphon, why stay'st thou thus behind, When other men press 12 forward for renown? Go, Menaphon, go into Scythia, And foot by foot follow Theridamas. COSROE. Nay, pray you, 13 let him stay; a greater [task] Fits Menaphon than warring with a thief: Create him pro-rex of all 14 Africa, That he may win the Babylonians' hearts, Which will revolt from Persian government, Unless they have a wiser king than you. MYCETES. Unless they have a wiser king than you! These are his words; Meander, set them down. COSROE. And add this to them,—that all Asia Lament to see the folly of their king. MYCETES. Well, here I swear by this my royal seat— COSROE. You may do well to kiss it, then. MYCETES. Emboss'd with silk as best beseems my state, To be reveng'd for these contemptuous words! O, where is duty and allegiance now? Fled to the Caspian or the Ocean main? What shall I call thee? brother? no, a foe; Monster of nature, shame unto thy stock, That dar'st presume thy sovereign for to mock!— Meander, come: I am abus'd, Meander.

Tamburlaine Christopher Marlowe 1586

So come, young lords, and enter our palace. Fortune, pursuing me too, through many similar troubles, willed that I would find peace at last in this land. Not being unknown to evil, I've learned to aid the unhappy.' So she speaks, and leads Aeneas into the royal house, and proclaims, as well, offerings at the god's temples. She sends no less than twenty bulls to his friends on the shore, and a hundred of her largest pigs with bristling backs, a hundred fat lambs with the ewes, and joyful gifts of wine, but the interior of the palace is laid out with royal luxury, and they prepare a feast in the centre of the palace: covers worked skilfully in princely purple, massive silverware on the tables, and her forefathers' heroic deeds engraved in gold, a long series of exploits traced through many heroes, since the ancient origins of her people. Aeneas quickly sends Achates to the ships to carry the news to Ascanius (since a father's love won't let his mind rest) and bring him to the city: on Ascanius all the care of a fond parent is fixed. He commands him to bring gifts too, snatched from the ruins of Troy, a figured robe stiff with gold, and a cloak fringed with yellow acanthus, worn by Helen of Argos, brought from Mycenae when she sailed to Troy and her unlawful marriage, a wonderful gift from her mother Leda: and the sceptre that Ilione, Priam's eldest daughter, once carried, and a necklace of pearls, and a double-coronet of jewels and gold. Achates, hastening to fulfil these commands, took his way towards the ships.

The Aeneid Virgil (translator John Dryden) 29 and 19 BC

Pla ce bo, Who is there, who? Di le xi, Dame Margery; Fa, re, my, my, Wherfore and why, why? For the sowle of Philip Sparowe, That was late slayn at Carowe, Among the Nones Blake, For that swete soules sake, And for all sparowes soules, Set in our bederolles, Pater noster qui, With an Ave Mari, And with the corner of a Crede, The more shalbe your mede. Whan I remembre agayn How mi Philyp was slayn, Never halfe the payne Was betwene you twayne, Pyramus and Thesbe, As than befell to me: I wept and I wayled, The tearys downe hayled; But nothinge it avayled To call Phylyp agayne, Whom Gyb our cat hath slayne. Gib, I saye, our cat, Worrowyd her on that Which I loved best: It can not be exprest My sorowfull hevynesse, But all without redresse; For within that stounde, Halfe slumbrynge, in a swounde I fell downe to the grounde. Unneth I kest myne eyes Towarde the cloudy skyes: But whan I dyd beholde My sparow dead and colde, No creatuer but that wolde Have rewed upon me, To behold and se What hevynesse dyd me pange; Wherewith my handes I wrange, That my senaws cracked, As though I had ben racked, So payned and so strayned, That no lyfe wellnye remayned. I syghed and I sobbed, For that I was robbed Of my sparowes lyfe. O mayden, wydow, and wyfe, Of what estate ye be, Of hye or lowe degre, Great sorowe than ye myght se, And lerne to wepe at me! Such paynes dyd me frete, That myne hert dyd bete, My vysage pale and dead, Wanne, and blewe as lead; The panges of hatefull death Wellnye had stopped my breath. Heu, heu, me, That I am wo for the! Ad Dominum, cum tribularer, clamavi: Of God nothynge els crave I But Phyllypes soule to kepe From the marees deepe Of Acherontes well, That is a flode of hell; And from the great Pluto, The prynce of endles wo; And from foule Alecto, With vysage blacke and blo; And from Medusa, that mare, That lyke a fende doth stare; And from Megeras edders, For rufflynge of Phillips fethers, And from her fyry sparklynges, For burnynge of his wynges; And from the smokes sowre Of Proserpinas bowre; And from the dennes darke, Wher Cerberus doth barke, Whom Theseus dyd afraye, Whom Hercules dyd outraye, As famous poetes say; From that hell-hounde, That lyeth in cheynes bounde, With gastly hedes thre, To Jupyter pray we That Phyllyp preserved may be! Amen, say ye with me! Do mi nus, Helpe nowe, swete Jesus! Levavi oculos meos in montes: Wolde God I had Zenophontes, Or Socrates the wyse To shew me their devyse, Moderatly to take This sorrow that I make For Phylyp Sparowes sake! So fervently I shake, I fele my body quake; So urgently I am brought Into carefull thought. Like Andromach, Hectors wyfe, Was wery of her lyfe, Whan she had lost her joye, Noble Hector of Troye; In lyke maner also Encreaseth my dedly wo, For my sparowe is go. It was so prety a fole, It wold syt on a stole, And lerned after my scole For to kepe his cut, With, "Phyllyp, kepe your cut!" It had a velvet cap, And wold syt upon my lap, And seke after small wormes, And somtyme white bred crommes; And many tymes and ofte Betwene my brestes softe It wolde lye and rest; It was propre and prest. Somtyme he wolde gaspe Whan he sawe a waspe; A fly or a gnat, He wolde flye at that; And prytely he wold pant Whan he saw an ant; Lord, how he wolde pry After the butterfly! Lorde, how he wolde hop After the gressop! And whan I sayd, "Phyp! Phyp!" Than he wold lepe and skyp, And take me by the lyp. Alas, it wyll me slo, That Phillyp is gone me fro!

The Book of Phillip Sparrow John Skelton 1460-1529 published after death?

The field is spacious I design to sow With oxen far unfit to draw the plough: The remnant of my tale is of a length To tire your patience, and to waste my strength; And trivial accidents shall be forborn, That others may have time to take their turn, As was at first enjoined us by mine host, That he, whose tale is best and pleases most, Should win his supper at our common cost. And therefore where I left, I will pursue This ancient story, whether false or true, In hope it may be mended with a new. The Prince I mentioned, full of high renown, In this array drew near the Athenian town; When, in his pomp and utmost of his pride Marching, he chanced to cast his eye aside, And saw a quire of mourning dames, who lay By two and two across the common way: At his approach they raised a rueful cry, And beat their breasts, and held their hands on high, Creeping and crying, till they seized at last His courser's bridle and his feet embraced. "Tell me," said Theseus, "what and whence you are, "And why this funeral pageant you prepare? Is this the welcome of my worthy deeds, To meet my triumph in ill-omened weeds? Or envy you my praise, and would destroy With grief my pleasures, and pollute my joy? Or are you injured, and demand relief? Name your request, and I will ease your grief." The most in years of all the mourning train Began; but swounded first away for pain; Then scarce recovered spoke: "Nor envy we "Thy great renown, nor grudge thy victory; 'Tis thine, O King, the afflicted to redress, And fame has filled the world with thy success: We wretched women sue for that alone, Which of thy goodness is refused to none; Let fall some drops of pity on our grief, If what we beg be just, and we deserve relief; For none of us, who now thy grace implore, But held the rank of sovereign queen before; Till, thanks to giddy Chance, which never bears That mortal bliss should last for length of years, She cast us headlong from our high estate, And here in hope of thy return we wait, And long have waited in the temple nigh, Built to the gracious goddess Clemency. But reverence thou the power whose name it bears, Relieve the oppressed, and wipe the widows' tears. I, wretched I, have other fortune seen, The wife of Capaneus, and once a Queen; At Thebes he fell; cursed be the fatal day! And all the rest thou seest in this array To make their moan their lords in battle lost, Before that town besieged by our confederate host. But Creon, old and impious, who commands The Theban city, and usurps the lands, Denies the rites of funeral fires to those Whose breathless bodies yet he calls his foes. Unburned, unburied, on a heap they lie; Such is their fate, and such his tyranny; No friend has leave to bear away the dead, But with their lifeless limbs his hounds are fed." At this she shrieked aloud; the mournful train Echoed her grief, and grovelling on the plain, With groans, and hands upheld, to move his mind, Besought his pity to their helpless kind.

The Canterbury Tales The Knight 1387

Whilom ther was dwellynge in Lumbardye And certeinly, as sooth as God is kyng, To take a wyf it is a glorious thyng, And namely whan a man is oold and hoor; Thanne is a wyf the fruyt of his tresor. Thanne sholde he take a yong wyf and a feir, On which he myghte engendren hym and heir, And lede his lyf in joye and in solas, Where as thise bacheleris synge allas, Whan that they funden any adversitee In love, which nys but childyssh vanytee. And trewely it sit wel to be so, That bacheleris have often peyne and wo; On brotel ground they buylde, and brotelnesse They fynde, whan they wene sikernesse. They lyve but as a bryd or as a beest, In libertee, and under noon arreest, Ther as a wedded man in his estaat Lyveth a lyf blisful and ordinaat, Under this yok of mariage ybounde. Wel may his herte in joy and blisse habounde, For who kan be so buxom as a wyf? Who is so trewe, and eek so ententyf To kepe hym, syk and hool, as is his make? For wele or wo she wole hym nat forsake; She nys nat wery hym to love and serve, Thogh that he lye bedrede, til he sterve. And yet somme clerkes seyn it nys nat so, Of whiche he Theofraste is oon of tho. What force though Theofraste liste lye? "Ne take no wyf," quod he, "for housbondrye, As for to spare in houshold thy dispence. A trewe servant dooth moore diligence Thy good to kepe, than thyn owene wyf, For she wol clayme half part al hir lyf. And if that thou be syk, so God me save, Thy verray freendes, or a trewe knave, Wol kepe thee bet than she that waiteth ay After thy good and hath doon many a day. And if thou take a wyf unto thyn hoold, Ful lightly maystow been a cokewold." This sentence, and an hundred thynges worse, Writeth this man, ther God his bones corse! But take no kep of al swich vanytee; Deffie Theofraste, and herke me. A wyf is Goddes yifte verraily; Alle othere manere yiftes hardily, As londes, rentes, pasture, or commune, Or moebles, alle been yiftes of fortune, That passen as a shadwe upon a wal. But drede nat, if pleynly speke I shal, A wyf wol laste, and thyn hous endure, Wel lenger than thee list, paraventure. Mariage is a ful greet sacrement. He which that hath no wyf, I holde hym shent; He lyveth helplees and al desolat, -- I speke of folk in seculer estaat. And herke why, I sey nat this for noght, That womman is for mannes helpe ywroght. The hye God, whan he hadde Adam maked, And saugh him al allone, bely-naked, God of his grete goodnesse syde than, "Lat us now make an helpe unto this man Lyk to hymself"; and thanne he made him Eve. Heere may ye se, and heerby may ye preve, That wyf is mannes helpe and his confort, His paradys terrestre, and his disport. So buxom and so vertuous is she, They moste nedes lyve in unitee. O flessh they been, and o fleesh, as I gesse, Hath but oon herte, in wele and in distresse. A wyf! a, Seinte Marie, benedicite! How myghte man han any adversitee That hath a wyf? certes, I kan nat seye. The blisse which that is bitwixe hem tweye Ther may no tonge telle, or herte thynke. If he be povre, she helpeth hym to swynke; She kepeth his good, and wasteth never a deel; Al that hire housbonde lust, hire liketh weel; She seith nat ones "nay", whan he seith "ye". "Do this," seith he; "Al redy, sire," seith she. O blisful ordre of wedlok precious, Thou art so murye, and eek so vertuous, And so commended and appreved eek That every man that halt hym worth a leek, Upon his bare knees oughte al his lyf Thanken his God that hym hath sent a wyf, Or elles preye to God hym for to sende A wyf, to laste unto his lyves ende. For thanne his lyf is set in sikernesse; He may nat be deceyved, as I gesse, So that he werke after his wyves reed. Thanne may he boldely beren up his heed, They been so trewe, and therwithal so wyse; For which, if thou wolt werken as the wyse, Do alwey so as wommen wol thee rede. Lo, how that Jacob, as thise clerkes rede, By good conseil of his mooder Rebekke, Boond the kydes skyn aboute his nekke, For which his fadres benyson he wan. Lo, Judith, as the storie eek telle kan, By wys conseil she Goddes peple kepte, And slow hym Olofernus, whil he slepte. Lo Abigayl, by good conseil, how she Saved hir housbonde Nabal, whan that he Sholde han be slayn; and looke, Ester also By good conseil delyvered out of wo The peple of God, and made hym Mardochee Of Assuere enhaunced for to be. Ther nys no thyng in gree superlatyf, As seith Senek, above and humble wyf. Suffre thy wyves tonge, as Catoun bit; She shal comande, and thou shalt suffren it, And yet she wole obeye of curteisye. A wyf is kepere of thyn housbondrye; Wel may the sike man biwaille and wepe, Ther as ther nys no wyf the hous to kepe. I warne thee, if wisely thou wolt wirche, Love wel thy wyf, as Crist loved his chirche. If thou lovest thyself, thou lovest thy wyf; No man hateth his flessh, but in his lyf He fostreth it, and therfore bidde I thee, Cherisse thy wyf, or thou shalt nevere thee. Housbonde and wyf, what so men jape or pleye, Of worldly folk holden the siker weye; They been so knyt ther may noon harm bityde, And namely upon the wyves syde. For which this Januarie, of whom I tolde, Considered hath, inwith his dayes olde, The lusty lyf, the vertuous quyete, That is in mariage hony-sweete; And for his freendes on a day he sente, To tellen hem th'effect of his entente. With face sad his tale he hath hem toold. He seyde, "Freendes, I am hoor and oold, And almost, God woot, on my pittes brynke; Upon my soule somwhat moste I thynke. I have my body folily despended; Blessed be God that it shal been amended! For I wol be, certeyn, a wedded man, And that anoon in al the haste I kan. Unto som mayde fair and tendre of age, I prey yow, shapeth for my mariage Al sodeynly, for I wol nat abyde; And I wol fonde t'espien, on my syde, To whom I may be wedded hastily. But forasmuche as ye been mo than I, Ye shullen rather swich a thyng espyen Than I, and where me best were to allyen.

The Canterbury Tales The Merchant's Tale 1387

Whilom ther was dwellynge at Oxenford This clerk was cleped hende Nicholas. Of deerne love he koude and of solas; And therto he was sleigh and ful privee, And lyk a mayden meke for to see. A chambre hadde he in that hostelrye Allone, withouten any compaignye, Ful fetisly ydight with herbes swoote; And he hymself as sweete as is the roote Of lycorys, or any cetewale. His Almageste, and bookes grete and smale, His astrelabie, longynge for his art, His augrym stones layen faire apart, On shelves couched at his beddes heed; His presse ycovered with a faldyng reed And al above ther lay a gay sautrie, On which he made a-nyghtes melodie So swetely that all the chambre rong; And Angelus ad virginem he song; And after that he song the Kynges Noote. Ful often blessed was his myrie throte. And thus this sweete clerk his tyme spente After his freendes fyndyng and his rente. This carpenter hadde newe a wyf, Which that he lovede moore than his lyf; Of eighteteene yeer she was of age. Jalous he was, and heeld hire narwe in cage, For she was wylde and yong, and he was old, And demed hymself, been lik a cokewold. He knew nat Catoun, for his wit was rude, That bad man sholde wedde his simylitude. Men sholde wedden after hire estaat, For youth and elde is often at debaat. But sith that he was fallen in the snare, Her moste endure, as oother folk, his care. Fair was this yonge wyf, and therwithal As any wezele hir body gent and smal. A ceynt she werede, barred al of silk, A barmclooth as whit as morne milk Upon her lendes, ful of many a goore. Whit was hir smok, and broyden al bifoore And eek bihynde, on hir coler aboute, Of col-blak silk, withinne and eek withoute. The tapes of hir white voluper Were of the same suyte of his coler; Hir filet brood of silk, and set ful hye. And sikerly she hadde a likerous ye; Ful smale ypulled were hire browes two, And tho were bent and blake as any sloo. She was ful moore blisful on to see Than is the newe pere-jonette tree, And softer than the wolle is of a wether. And by hir girdel heeng a purs of lether, Tasseled with silk, and perled with latoun. In al this world, to seken up and doun, There nys no man so wys that koude thenche So gay a popelote or swich a wenche. Ful brighter was the shynyng of hir hewe Than in the Tour the noble yforged newe. But of hir song, it was as loude and yerne As any swalwe sittynge on a berne. Therto she koude skippe and make game, As any kyde or calf folwynge his dame. Hir mouth was sweete as bragot or the meeth, Or hoord of apples leyd in hey or heeth. Wynsynge she was, as is a joly colt, Long as a mast, and upright as a bolt. A brooch she baar upon hir lowe coler, As brood as is the boos of a bokeler. Hir shoes were laced on hir legges hye. She was a prymerole, a piggesnye, For any lord to leggen in his bedde, Or yet for any good yeman to wedde. Now, sire, and eft, sire, so bifel the cas, That on a day this hende Nicholas Fil with this yonge wyf to rage and pleye, Whil that her housbonde was at Oseneye, As clerkes ben ful subtile and ful queynte; And prively he caughte hire by the queynte, And seyde, "Ywis, but if ich have my wille, For deerne love of thee, lemman, I spille." And heeld hire harde by the haunchebones, And seyde, "Lemman, love me al atones, Or I wol dyen, also God me save!" And she sproong as a colt dooth in the trave, And with hir heed she wryed faste awey, And seyde, "I wol nat kisse thee, by my fey! Why, lat be," quod she, "lat be, Nicholas, Or I wol crie 'out harrow' and 'allas!' Do wey youre handes, for youre curteisye!"

The Canterbury Tales The Miller's Tale 1387

A povre wydwe, somdel stape in age, A yeerd she hadde, enclosed al aboute With stikkes, and a drye dych withoute, In which she hadde a Cok, hight Chauntecleer, In al the land of crowyng nas his peer. His voys was murier than the murie orgon On messe-dayes, that in the chirche gon. Wel sikerer was his crowyng in his logge, Than is a clokke, or an abbey orlogge. By nature he crew eche ascencioun Of the equynoxial in thilke toun; For whan degrees fiftene weren ascended, Thanne crew he, that it myghte nat been amended. His coomb was redder than the fyn coral, And batailled, as it were a castel wal. His byle was blak, and as the jeet it shoon, Lyk asure were hise legges and his toon, His nayles whiter than the lylye flour, And lyk the burned gold was his colour. This gentil cok hadde in his governaunce Sevene hennes, for to doon al his plesaunce, Whiche were hise sustres and his paramours, And wonder lyk to hym as of colours; Of whiche the faireste hewed on hir throte Was cleped faire damoysele Pertelote. Curteys she was, discreet, and debonaire And compaignable, and bar hyrself so faire Syn thilke day that she was seven nyght oold, That trewely she hath the herte in hoold Of Chauntecleer loken in every lith. He loved hire so, that wel was hym therwith. But swich a joye was it to here hem synge Whan that the brighte sonne gan to sprynge, In sweete accord, "My lief is faren in londe!" For thilke tyme, as I have understonde, Beestes and briddes koude speke and synge.

The Canterbury Tales The Nun's Priest's 1387

In Flaundres whilom was a compaignye Of yonge folk, that haunteden folye, As riot, hasard, stywes, and tavernes, Wher as with harpes, lutes, and gyternes They daunce and pleyen at dees, bothe day and nyght, And eten also and drynken over hir myght, Thurgh which they doon the devel sacrifise Withinne that develes temple in cursed wise, By superfluytee abhomynable. Hir othes been so grete and so dampnable That it is grisly for to heere hem swere. Oure blissed lordes body they totere - Hem thoughte that Jewes rente hym noght ynough - And ech of hem at otheres synne lough. And right anon thanne comen tombesteres, Fetys and smale, and yonge frutesteres, Syngeres with harpes, baudes, wafereres, Whiche been the verray develes officeres To kyndle and blowe the fyr of lecherye, That is annexed unto glotonye. The hooly writ take I to my witnesse, That luxurie is in wyn and dronkenesse. Lo, how that dronken Looth, unkyndely Lay by hise doghtres two, unwityngly; So dronke he was, he nyste what he wroghte. Herodes, whoso wel the stories soghte, Whan he of wyn was repleet at his feeste, Right at his owene table he yaf his heeste To sleen the Baptist John, ful giltelees. Senec seith a good word, doutelees; He seith, he kan no difference fynde Bitwix a man that is out of his mynde, And a man which that is dronkelewe, But that woodnesse fallen in a shrewe Persevereth lenger than dooth dronkenesse. O glotonye, ful of cursednesse! O cause first of oure confusioun! O original of oure dampnacioun Til Crist hadde boght us with his blood agayn! Lo, how deere, shortly for to sayn, Aboght was thilke cursed vileynye! Corrupt was al this world for glotonye! Adam oure fader, and his wyf also, Fro Paradys to labour and to wo Were dryven for that vice, it is no drede. For whil that Adam fasted, as I rede, He was in Paradys, and whan that he Eet of the fruyt deffended on the tree, Anon he was out cast to wo and peyne. O glotonye, on thee wel oghte us pleyne! O, wiste a man how manye maladyes Folwen of excesse and of goltonyes, He wolde been the moore mesurable Of his diete, sittynge at his table. Allas, the shorte throte, the tendre mouth Maketh that est and west and north and south In erthe, in eir, in water, man to swynke To gete a glotoun deyntee mete and drynke! Of this matiere, O Paul! wel kanstow trete: "Mete unto wombe and wombe eek unto mete Shal God destroyen bothe," as Paulus seith. Allas, a foul thyng is it, by my feith, To seye this word, and fouler is the dede Whan man so drynketh of the white and rede That of his throte he maketh his pryvee Thurgh thilke cursed superfluitee. The Apostel wepying seith ful pitously, "Ther walken manye of whiche yow toold have I - I seye it now wepyng with pitous voys, That they been enemys of Cristes croys, Of whiche the ende is deeth, wombe is hir god." O wombe! O bely! O stynkyng cod! Fulfilled of donge and of corrupcioun, At either ende of thee foul is the soun; How greet labour and cost is thee to fynde, Thise cookes, how they stampe, and streyne, and grynde, And turnen substaunce into accident, To fulfillen al thy likerous talent! Out of the harde bones knokke they The mary, for they caste noght awey, That may go thurgh the golet softe and swoote; Of spicerie, of leef, and bark, and roote, Shal been his sauce ymaked by delit, To make hym yet a newer appetit. But, certes, he that haunteth swiche delices Is deed, whil that he lyveth in tho vices. A lecherous thyng is wyn, and dronkenesse Is ful of stryvyng and of wrecchednesse. O dronke man, disfigured is thy face! Sour is thy breeth, foul artow to embrace, And thurgh thy dronke nose semeth the soun, As though thow seydest ay, "Sampsoun! Sampsoun!" And yet, God woot, Sampsoun drank nevere no wyn! Thou fallest, as it were a styked swyn; Thy tonge is lost, and al thyn honeste cure; For dronkenesse is verray sepulture Of mannes wit and his discrecioun, In whom that drynke hath dominacioun. He kan no conseil kepe, it is no drede. Now kepe yow fro the white and fro the rede, And namely, fro the white wyn of Lepe, That is to selle in fysshstrete, or in Chepe. This wyn of Spaigne crepeth subtilly In othere wynes, growynge faste by, Of which ther ryseth swich fumositee, That whan a man hath dronken draughtes thre And weneth that he be at hoom in Chepe, He is in Spaigne, right at the toune of Lepe, Nat at the Rochele, ne at Burdeux toun; And thanne wol he seye "Sampsoun, Sampsoun!" But herkneth, lordynges, o word I yow preye, That alle the sovereyn actes, dar I seye, Of victories in the Olde Testament, Thurgh verray God that is omnipotent Were doon in abstinence and in preyere. Looketh the Bible, and ther ye may it leere. Looke, Attilla, the grete conquerour, Deyde in his sleepe, with shame and dishonour, Bledynge ay at his nose in dronkenesse. A capitayn sholde lyve in sobrenesse; And over al this avyseth yow right wel, What was comaunded unto Lamwel, Nat Samuel, but Lamwel, seye I - Redeth the Bible and fynde it expresly, Of wyn yevyng to hem that han justise. Namoore of this, for it may wel suffise. And now that I have spoken of glotonye, Now wol I yow deffenden hasardrye. Hasard is verray mooder of lesynges, And of dedeite and cursed forswerynges, Blaspheme of Crist, manslaughtre and wast also Of catel and of tyme, and forthermo It is repreeve and contrarie of honour For to ben holde a commune hasardour. And ever the hyer he is of estaat, The moore is he holden desolaat; If that a prynce useth hasardrye, In all governaunce and policye He is as by commune opinioun Yholde the lasse in reputacioun. Stilboun, that was a wys embassadour, Was sent to Corynthe in ful greet honour, Fro Lacidomye to maken hire alliaunce. And whan he cam hym happede par chaunce, That alle the gretteste that were of that lond Pleyynge atte hasard he hem fond. For which, as soone as it myghte be, He stal hym hoom agayn to his contree, And seyde, "Ther wol I nat lese my name, Ne I wol nat take on me so greet defame. Yow for to allie unto none hasardours. Sendeth othere wise embassadours, For by my trouthe me were levere dye Than I yow sholde to hasardours allye. For ye that been so glorious in honours Shul nat allyen yow with hasardours As by my wyl, ne as by my tretee." This wise philosophre, thus seyde hee. Looke eek that to the kyng Demetrius The kyng of Parthes, as the book seith us, Sente him a paire of dees of gold, in scorn, For he hadde used hasard ther-biforn, For which he heeld his glorie or his renoun At no value or reputacioun. Lordes may fynden oother maner pley Honeste ynough, to dryve the day awey. Now wol I speke of othes false and grete A word or two, as olde bookes trete. Gret sweryng is a thyng abhominable, And fals sweryng is yet moore reprevable. The heighe God forbad sweryng at al, Witnesse on Mathew; but in special Of sweryng seith the hooly Jeremye, "Thou shalt seye sooth thyne othes, and nat lye, And swere in doom, and eek in rightwisnesse"; But ydel sweryng is a cursednesse. Bihoold and se, that in the firste table Of heighe Goddes heestes honurable How that the seconde heeste of hym is this: "Take nat my name in ydel or amys." Lo, rather he forbedeth swich sweryng Than homycide, or any cursed thyng; I seye, that as by ordre thus it stondeth, This knowen that hise heestes understondeth How that the seconde heeste of God is that. And forther-over I wol thee telle al plat, That vengeance shal nat parten from his hous That of hise othes is to outrageous. "By Goddes precious herte," and "by his nayles," And "By the blood of Crist that is in Hayles, Sevene is my chaunce and thyn is cynk and treye!" "By Goddes armes, if thou falsly pleye, This daggere shal thurghout thyn herte go!" This fruyt cometh of the bicched bones two, Forsweryng, ire, falsnesse, homycide! Now, for the love of Crist, that for us dyde, Lete youre othes bothe grete and smale. But, sires, now wol I telle forth my tale. Thise riotoures thre, of whiche I telle, Longe erst er prime rong of any belle, Were set hem in a taverne for to drynke. And as they sat, they herde a belle clynke Biforn a cors, was caried to his grave. That oon of hem gan callen to his knave, "Go bet," quod he, "and axe redily What cors is this, that passeth heer forby; And looke, that thou reporte his name weel." "Sire," quod this boy, "it nedeth never a deel; It was me toold, er ye cam heer two houres. He was, pardee, an old felawe of youres; And sodeynly he was yslayn to-nyght, Fordronke, as he sat on his bench upright. Ther cam a privee theef men clepeth Deeth, That in this contree al the peple sleeth, And with his spere he smoot his herte atwo, And wente his wey withouten wordes mo. He hath a thousand slayn this pestilence. And, maister, er ye come in his presence, Me thynketh that it were necessarie For to be war of swich an adversarie. Beth redy for to meete hym everemoore; Thus taughte me my dame, I sey namoore." "By Seinte Marie!" seyde this taverner, "The child seith sooth, for he hath slayn this yeer Henne over a mile, withinne a greet village Bothe man and womman, child, and hyne, and page. I trowe his habitacioun be there. To been avysed, greet wysdom it were, Er that he dide a man a dishonour." "Ye, Goddes armes!" quod this riotour, "Is it swich peril with hym for to meete? I shal hym seke, by wey and eek by strete, I make avow to Goddes digne bones! Herkneth, felawes, we thre been al ones; Lat ech of us holde up his hand til oother, And ech of us bicomen otheres brother, And we wol sleen this false traytour Deeth. He shal be slayn, which that so manye sleeth, By Goddes dignitee, er it be nyght!" Togidres han thise thre hir trouthes plight To lyve and dyen, ech of hem for oother, As though he were his owene ybore brother; And up they stirte al dronken in this rage, And forth they goon towardes that village, Of which the taverner hadde spoke biforn. And many a grisly ooth thanne han they sworn, And Cristes blessed body they torente - Deeth shal be deed, if that they may hym hente! Whan they han goon nat fully half a mile, Right as they wolde han troden over a stile, An oold man and a povre with hem mette. This olde man ful mekely hem grette, And seyde thus, "Now, lordes, God yow see!" The proudeste of thise riotoures three Answerde agayn, "What, carl, with sory grace, Why artow al forwrapped save thy face? Why lyvestow so longe in so greet age?" This olde man gan looke in his visage, And seyde thus: "For I ne kan nat fynde A man, though that I walked into Ynde, Neither in citee nor in no village, That wolde chaunge his youthe for myn age; And therfore mooth I han myn age stille, As longe tyme as it is Goddes wille. Ne Deeth, allas, ne wol nat han my lyf. Thus walke I lyk a restelees kaityf, And on the ground, which is my moodres gate, I knokke with my staf bothe erly and late, And seye, "Leeve mooder, leet me in! Lo, how I vanysshe, flessh and blood and skyn! Allas, whan shul my bones been at reste? Mooder, with yow wolde I chaunge my cheste, That in my chambre longe tyme hath be, Ye, for an heyre-clowt to wrappe me." But yet to me she wol nat do that grace, For which ful pale and welked is my face.

The Canterbury Tales The Pardoner's Tale 1387

A litel scole of cristen folk ther stood Doun at the ferther ende, in which ther were Children an heep, ycomen of Cristen blood, That lerned in that scole yeer by yeer Swich manere doctrine as men used there, This is to seyn, to syngen and to rede, As smale children doon in hir childhede. Among thise children was a wydwes sone, A litel clergeon, seven yeer of age, That day by day to scole was his wone, And eek also, wher as he saugh th' ymage Of Cristes mooder, he hadde in usage As hym was taught, to knele adoun, and seye His Ave Marie, as he goth by the weye. Thus hath this wydwe hir litel sone ytaught Oure blisful Lady, Cristes mooder deere, To worshipe ay; and he forgate it naught, For sely child wol alday soone leere. But ay, whan I remembre on this mateere, Seint Nicholas stant evere in my presence, For he so yong to Crist dide reverence. This litel child, his litel book lernynge, As he sat in the scole at his prymer, He Alma redemptoris herde synge As children lerned hir anthiphoner; And as he dorste, he drough hym ner and ner, And herkned ay the wordes and the noote, Til he the firste vers koude al by rote. Noght wiste he what this Latyn was to seye, For he so yong and tendre was of age, But on a day his felawe gan he preye T'expounden hym this song in his langage, Or telle hym why this song was in usage; This preyde he hym to construe and declare Ful often tyme upon hise knowes bare. His felawe, which that elder was than he, Answerde hym thus, "This song, I have herd seye, Was maked of oure blisful Lady free, Hir to salue, and eek hir for to preye To been our help, and socour whan we deye. I kan namoore expounde in this mateere, I lerne song, I kan but smal grammere." "And is this song maked in reverence Of Cristes mooder?" seyde this innocent. "Now, certes, I wol do my diligence To konne it al, er Cristemasse is went; Though that I for my prymer shal be shent And shal be beten thries in an houre, I wol it konne, oure lady for to honoure."

The Canterbury Tales The Prioress 1387

In th'olde dayes of the Kyng Arthour, Of which that Britons speken greet honour, All was this land fulfild of fayerye. The elf-queene, with hir joly compaignye, Daunced ful ofte in many a grene mede. This was the olde opinion, as I rede; I speke of manye hundred yeres ago. But now kan no man se none elves mo, For now the grete charitee and prayeres Of lymytours and othere hooly freres, That serchen every lond and every streem, As thikke as motes in the sonne-beem, Blessynge halles, chambres, kichenes, boures, Citees, burghes, castels, hye toures, Thropes, bernes, shipnes, dayeryes, This maketh that ther been no fayeryes. For ther as wont to walken was an elf, Ther walketh now the lymytour hymself In undermeles and in morwenynges, And seyth his matyns and his hooly thynges As he gooth in his lymytacioun. Wommen may go saufly up and doun. In every bussh or under every tree Ther is noon oother incubus but he, And he ne wol doon hem but dishonour. And so bifel it that this kyng Arthour Hadde in his hous a lusty bacheler, That on a day cam ridynge fro ryver; And happed that, allone as she was born, He saugh a mayde walkynge hym biforn, Of whiche mayde anon, maugree hir heed, By verray force he rafte hir maydenhed; For which oppressioun was swich clamour And swich pursute unto the kyng Arthour, That dampned was this knyght for to be deed, By cours of lawe, and sholde han lost his heed - Paraventure, swich was the statut tho - But that the queene and othere ladyes mo So longe preyeden the kyng of grace, Til he his lyf hym graunted in the place, And yaf hym to the queene al at hir wille, To chese wheither she wolde hym save or spille. The queene thanketh the kyng with al hir myght, And after this thus spak she to the knyght, Whan that she saugh hir tyme, upon a day, "Thou standest yet," quod she, "in swich array That of thy lyf yet hastow no suretee. I grante thee lyf, if thou kanst tellen me What thyng is it that wommen moost desiren. Be war and keep thy nekke-boon from iren! And if thou kanst nat tellen it anon, Yet shal I yeve thee leve for to gon A twelf-month and a day to seche and leere An answere suffisant in this mateere; And suretee wol I han, er that thou pace, Thy body for to yelden in this place." Wo was this knyght, and sorwefully he siketh; But what! He may nat do al as hym liketh. And at the laste he chees hym for to wende, And come agayn right at the yeres ende, With swich answere as God wolde hym purveye; And taketh his leve, and wendeth forth his weye. He seketh every hous and every place Where as he hopeth for to fynde grace To lerne what thyng wommen loven moost; But he ne koude arryven in no coost Wher as he myghte fynde in this mateere Two creatures accordynge in-feere. Somme seyde, wommen loven best richesse, Somme seyde honour, somme seyde jolynesse, Somme riche array, somme seyden lust abedde, And oftetyme to be wydwe and wedde. Somme seyde, that oure hertes been moost esed Whan that we been yflatered and yplesed. He gooth ful ny the sothe, I wol nat lye, A man shal wynne us best with flaterye; And with attendance and with bisynesse Been we ylymed, bothe moore and lesse. And somme seyen, how that we loven best For to be free, and do right as us lest, And that no man repreve us of oure vice, But seye that we be wise, and nothyng nyce. For trewely, ther is noon of us alle, If any wight wol clawe us on the galle, That we nel kike; for he seith us sooth; Assay, and he shal fynde it that so dooth. For, be we never so vicious withinne, We sol been holden wise, and clene of synne. And somme seyn, that greet delit han we For to been holden stable and eek secree, And in o purpos stedefastly to dwelle, And nat biwreye thyng that men us telle. But that tale is nat worth a rake-stele, Pardee, we wommen konne no thyng hele. Witnesse on Myda, - wol ye heere the tale? Ovyde, amonges othere thynges smale, Seyde, Myda hadde under his longe heres Growynge upon his heed two asses eres, The whiche vice he hydde, as he best myghte, Ful subtilly from every mannes sighte, That, save his wyf, ther wiste of it namo. He loved hire moost and trusted hir also; He preyede hire, that to no creature She sholde tellen of his disfigure. She swoor him nay, for al this world to wynne, She nolde do that vileynye or synne, To make hir housbonde han so foul a name. She nolde nat telle it for hir owene shame. But nathelees, hir thoughte that she dyde, That she so longe sholde a conseil hyde; Hir thoughte it swal so soore aboute hir herte That nedely som word hir moste asterte; And sith she dorste telle it to no man, Doun to a mareys faste by she ran, Til she cam there, hir herte was a fyre, And as a bitore bombleth in the myre, She leyde hir mouth unto the water doun: "Biwreye me nat, thou water, with thy soun," Quod she, "to thee I telle it and namo, Myn housbonde hath longe asses erys two! Now is myn herte al hool, now is it oute. I myghte no lenger kepe it, out of doute." Heere may ye se, thogh we a tyme abyde, Yet out it moot, we kan no conseil hyde. The remenant of the tale, if ye wol heere, Redeth Ovyde, and ther ye may it leere. This knyght, of which my tale is specially, Whan that he saugh he myghte nat come therby, This is to seye, what wommen love moost, Withinne his brest ful sorweful was the goost. But hoom he gooth, he myghte nat sojourne; The day was come that homward moste he tourne. And in his wey it happed hym to ryde, In al this care under a forest syde, Wher as he saugh upon a daunce go Of ladyes foure and twenty, and yet mo; Toward the whiche daunce he drow ful yerne, In hope that som wysdom sholde he lerne. But certeinly, er he came fully there, Vanysshed was this daunce, he nyste where. No creature saugh he that bar lyf, Save on the grene he saugh sittynge a wyf - A fouler wight ther may no man devyse. Agayn the knyght this olde wyf gan ryse, And seyde, "Sire knyght, heer forth ne lith no wey. Tel me what that ye seken, by your fey! Paraventure it may the bettre be, Thise olde folk kan muchel thyng," quod she. "My leeve mooder," quod this knyght, "certeyn I nam but deed, but if that I kan seyn What thyng it is, that wommen moost desire. Koude ye me wisse, I wolde wel quite youre hire." "Plight me thy trouthe, heere in myn hand," quod she, "The nexte thyng that I requere thee, Thou shalt it do, if it lye in thy myght, And I wol telle it yow, er it be nyght." "Have heer my trouthe," quod the knyght, "I grante." "Thanne," quod she, "I dar me wel avante Thy lyf is sauf; for I wol stonde therby, Upon my lyf, the queene wol seye as I. Lat se which is the proudeste of hem alle, That wereth on a coverchief or a calle, That dar seye nay of that I shal thee teche. Lat us go forth withouten lenger speche." Tho rowned she a pistel in his ere, And bad hym to be glad and have no fere. Whan they be comen to the court, this knyght Seyde he had holde his day, as he hadde hight, And redy was his answere, as he sayde. Ful many a noble wyf, and many a mayde, And many a wydwe, for that they been wise, The queene hirself sittynge as a justise, Assembled been, his answere for to heere; And afterward this knyght was bode appeere. To every wight comanded was silence, And that the knyght sholde telle in audience What thyng that worldly wommen loven best. This knyght ne stood nat stille as doth a best, But ot his questioun anon answerde With manly voys, that al the court it herde: "My lige lady, generally," quod he, "Wommen desiren to have sovereynetee As wel over hir housbond as hir love, And for to been in maistrie hym above. This is youre mooste desir, thogh ye me kille. Dooth as yow list, I am heer at youre wille." In al the court ne was ther wyf, ne mayde, Ne wydwe, that contraried that he sayde, But seyden he was worthy han his lyf. And with that word up stirte the olde wyf, Which that the knyght saugh sittynge in the grene. "Mercy," quod she, "my sovereyn lady queene, Er that youre court departe, do me right. I taughte this answere unto the knyght, For which he plighte me his trouthe there, The firste thyng I wolde of hym requere, He wolde it do, if it lay in his myght. Bifor the court thanne preye I thee, sir knyght," Quod she, "that thou me take unto thy wyf, For wel thou woost that I have kept thy lyf. If I seye fals, sey nay, upon thy fey!" This knyght answerde, "Allas and weylawey! I woot right wel that swich was my biheste! For Goddes love, as chees a newe requeste! Taak al my good, and lat my body go!" "Nay, thanne," quod she, "I shrewe us bothe two! For thogh that I be foul, and oold, and poore, I nolde for al the metal, ne for oore, That under erthe is grave, or lith above, But if thy wyf I were, and eek thy love." "My love?" quod he, "nay, my dampnacioun! Allas, that any of my nacioun Sholde evere so foule disparaged be!" But al for noght, the ende is this, that he Constreyned was, he nedes moste hir wedde; And taketh his olde wyf, and gooth to bedde. Now wolden som men seye, paraventure, That for my necligence I do no cure To tellen yow the joye and al th'array, That at the feeste was that ilke day; To whiche thyng shortly answere I shal: I seye, ther nas no joye ne feeste at al; Ther nas but hevynesse and muche sorwe. For prively he wedde hir on a morwe, And al day after hidde hym as an owle, So wo was hym, his wyf looked so foule. Greet was the wo the knyght hadde in his thoght, Whan he was with his wyf abedde ybroght; He walweth and he turneth to and fro. His olde wyf lay smylynge everemo, And seyde, "O deere housbonde, benedicitee, Fareth every knyght thus with his wyf, as ye? Is this the lawe of Kyng Arthures hous? Is every knyght of his so dangerous? I am youre owene love and youre wyf; I am she which that saved hath youre lyf. And certes, yet dide I yow nevere unright; Why fare ye thus with me this firste nyght? Ye faren lyk a man had lost his wit. What is my gilt? For Goddes love, tel it, And it shal been amended, if I may." "Amended," quod this knyght, "allas! nay! nay! It wol nat been amended nevere mo; Thou art so loothly and so oold also, And therto comen of so lough a kynde, That litel wonder is thogh I walwe and wynde. So wolde God, myn herte wolde breste!" "Is this," quod she, "the cause of youre unreste?" "Ye certeinly," quod he, "no wonder is!" "Now, sire," quod she, "I koude amende al this, If that me liste, er it were dayes thre, So wel ye myghte bere yow unto me. But for ye speken of swich gentillesse As is descended out of old richesse, That therfore sholden ye be gentil men, Swich arrogance nis nat worth an hen. Looke who that is moost vertuous alway, Pryvee and apert, and moost entendeth ay To do the gentil dedes that he kan, Taak hym for the grettest gentil man. Crist wole we clayme of hym oure gentillesse, Nat of oure eldres for hire old richesse. For thogh they yeve us al hir heritage, For which we clayme to been of heigh parage, Yet may they nat biquethe, for no thyng To noon of us hir vertuous lyvyng, That made hem gentil men ycalled be, And bad us folwen hem in swich degree. Wel kan the wise poete of Florence, That highte Dant, speken in this sentence. Lo in swich maner rym is Dantes tale: `Ful selde upriseth by his branches smale Prowesse of man, for God of his goodnesse, Wole, that of hym we clayme oure gentillesse.' For of oure eldres may we no thyng clayme But temporel thyng, that man may hurte and mayme. Eek every wight woot this as wel as I, If gentillesse were planted natureelly Unto a certeyn lynage doun the lyne, Pryvee nor apert, thanne wolde they nevere fyne To doon of gentillesse the faire office, They myghte do no vileynye or vice. Taak fyr, and ber it in the derkeste hous Bitwix this and the mount of Kaukasous, And lat men shette the dores and go thenne; Yet wole the fyr as faire lye and brenne As twenty thousand men myghte it biholde; His office natureel ay wol it holde, Up peril of my lyf, til that it dye. Heere may ye se wel, how that genterye Is nat annexed to possessioun, Sith folk ne doon hir operacioun Alwey, as dooth the fyr, lo, in his kynde. For God it woot, men may wel often fynde A lordes sone do shame and vileynye, And he that wole han pris of his gentrye, For he was boren of a gentil hous, And hadde hise eldres noble and vertuous, And nel hym-selven do no gentil dedis, Ne folwen his gentil auncestre that deed is, He nys nat gentil, be he duc or erl; For vileyns synful dedes make a cherl. For gentillesse nys but renomee Of thyne auncestres for hire heigh bountee, Which is a strange thyng to thy persone. Thy gentillesse cometh fro God allone. Thanne comth oure verray gentillesse of grace, It was no thyng biquethe us with oure place. Thenketh hou noble, as seith Valerius, Was thilke Tullius Hostillius, That out of poverte roos to heigh noblesse. Reedeth Senek, and redeth eek Boece, Ther shul ye seen expres that it no drede is, That he is gentil that dooth gentil dedis. And therfore, leeve housbonde, I thus conclude: Al were it that myne auncestres weren rude, Yet may the hye God, and so hope I, Grante me grace to lyven vertuously. Thanne am I gentil whan that I bigynne To lyven vertuously, and weyve synne. And ther as ye of poverte me repreeve, The hye God, on whom that we bileeve, In wilful poverte chees to lyve his lyf. And certes every man, mayden or wyf, May understonde that Jesus, hevene kyng, Ne wolde nat chesen vicious lyvyng. Glad poverte is an honeste thyng, certeyn, This wole Senec and othere clerkes seyn. Who so that halt hym payd of his poverte, I holde hym riche, al hadde he nat a sherte. He that coveiteth is a povre wight, For he wolde han that is nat in his myght; But he that noght hath, ne coveiteth have, Is riche, although ye holde hym but a knave. Verray poverte, it syngeth proprely; Juvenal seith of poverte myrily: `The povre man, whan he goth by the weye, Bifore the theves he may synge and pleye.' Poverte is hateful good, and, as I gesse, A ful greet bryngere out of bisynesse; A greet amender eek of sapience To hym that taketh it in pacience. Poverte is this, although it seme alenge, Possessioun, that no wight wol chalenge. Poverte ful ofte, whan a man is lowe, Maketh his God and eek hymself to knowe. Poverte a spectacle is, as thynketh me, Thurgh which he may hise verray freendes see. And therfore, sire, syn that I noght yow greve, Of my poverte namoore ye me repreve. Now sire, of elde ye repreve me, And certes, sire, thogh noon auctoritee Were in no book, ye gentils of honour Seyn, that men sholde an oold wight doon favour, And clepe hym fader for youre gentillesse; And auctours shal I fynden, as I gesse. Now, ther ye seye that I am foul and old, Than drede you noght to been a cokewold; For filthe and eelde, al so moot I thee, Been grete wardeyns upon chastitee; But nathelees, syn I knowe youre delit, I shal fulfille youre worldly appetit." "Chese now," quod she, "oon of thise thynges tweye: To han me foul and old til that I deye, And be to yow a trewe humble wyf, And nevere yow displese in al my lyf; Or elles ye wol han me yong and fair, And take youre aventure of the repair That shal be to youre hous, by cause of me, Or in som oother place may wel be.

The Canterbury Tales The Wife of Bath 1387

Poets like Cudgel'd Bullys, never do At first, or second blow, submit to you; But will provoke you still, and ne're have done, Till you are weary first, with laying on: The late so bafled Scribler of this day, Though he stands trembling, bids me boldly say, What we, before most Playes are us'd to do, For Poets out of fear, first draw on you; In a fierce Prologue, the still Pit defie, And e're you speak, like Castril, give the lye; But though our Bayses Batles oft I've fought, And with bruis'd knuckles, their dear Conquests bought; Nay, never yet fear'd Odds upon the Stage, In Prologue dare not Hector with the Age, But wou'd take Quarter from your saving hands, Though Bayse within all yielding Countermands, Says you Confed'rate Wits no Quarter give, Ther'fore his Play shan't ask your leave to live: Well, let the vain rash Fop, by huffing so, Think to obtain the better terms of you; But we the Actors humbly will submit, Now, and at any time, to a full Pit; Nay, often we anticipate your rage, And murder Poets for you, on our Stage: We set no Guards upon our Tyring-Room, But when with flying Colours, there you come, We patiently you see, give up to you, Our Poets, Virgins, nay our Matrons too.

The Country Wife (Prologue) William Wycherley 1675

Horn. [aside]. A quack is as fit for a pimp, as a midwife for a bawd; they are still but in their way, both helpers of nature.—[Aloud.] Well, my dear doctor, hast thou done what I desired? Quack. I have undone you for ever with the women, and reported you throughout the whole town as bad as an eunuch, with as much trouble as if I had made you one in earnest. Horn. But have you told all the midwives you know, the orange wenches at the playhouses, the city husbands, and old fumbling keepers of this end of the town? for they'll be the readiest to report it. Quack. I have told all the chambermaids, waiting-women, tire-women, and old women of my acquaintance; nay, and whispered it as a secret to 'em, and to the whisperers of Whitehall; so that you need not doubt 'twill spread, and you will be as odious to the handsome young women as— Horn.As the small-pox. Well— Quack. And to the married women of this end of the town, as— Horn. As the great one; nay, as their own husbands. Quack.And to the city dames, as aniseed Robin, of filthy and contemptible memory; and they will frighten their children with your name, especially their females. Horn.And cry, Horner's coming to carry you away. I am only afraid 'twill not be believed. You told 'em it was by an English-French disaster, and an English-French chirurgeon, who has given me at once not only a cure, but an antidote for the future against that damned malady, and that worse distemper, love, and all other women's evils? Quack. Your late journey into France has made it the more credible, and your being here a fortnight before you appeared in public, looks as if you apprehended the shame, which I wonder you do not. Well, I have been hired by young gallants to belie em t' other way; but you are the first would be thought a man unfit for women. Horn.Dear Mr. Doctor, let vain rogues be contented only to be thought abler men than they are, generally 'tis all the pleasure they have; but mine lies another way. Quack. You take, methinks, a very preposterous way to it, and as ridiculous as if we operators in physic should put forth bills to disparage our medicaments, with hopes to gain customers. Horn. Doctor, there are quacks in love as well as physic, who get but the fewer and worse patients for their boasting; a good name is seldom got by giving it one's self; and women, no more than honour, are compassed by bragging. Come, come, Doctor, the wisest lawyer never discovers the merits of his cause till the trial; the wealthiest man conceals his riches, and the cunning gamester his play. Shy husbands and keepers, like old rooks, are not to be cheated but by a new unpractised trick: false friendship will pass now no more than false dice upon 'em; no, not in the city.

The Country Wife (Restoration Comedy) William Wycherley 1675

The Reverend Samuel Parris, watching over his sick daughter Betty, is wondering what is wrong with her. It is soon revealed that the entire town is talking about rumors that Betty is sick because of witchcraft. Rev. Parris had seen both Betty and his niece Abigail dancing in the forest with his slave, Tituba, the night before. That evening in the forest, he also saw Tituba waving her arms over a fire, a dress on the ground, and someone naked running around their circle. When first questioned, Abigail denies that she or Betty have been involved in witchcraft, but she admits that they were dancing in the forest with Tituba. Abigail lives in the Parris household. She used to live and work at the home of John and Elizabeth Proctor, but was dismissed over an illicit relationship with John Proctor. When another couple, Thomas and Ann Putnam, arrives at the Parris household, they admit they had consulted Tituba, in the hope she could conjure up the spirits of their seven dead offspring. They wanted to find out why all seven babies died so soon after childbirth. To Reverend Parris's horror, the Putnams emphatically state that his slave Tituba consorts with the dead. The Putnams's only living child, Ruth, is now struck by a similar ailment as Betty Parris. When the minister and the Putnams are out of the room, Abigail threatens to harm the three other young girls in the room if they speak a word about what they did in the forest with Tituba. John Proctor comes to see what is wrong with Betty. He confronts Abigail, who says that Betty is just pretending to be ill or possessed by evil spirits. As Proctor and Abigail have this conversation, it becomes clear that the two of them had had an affair while she worked in the Proctor household and Proctor's wife, Elizabeth, was ill. Abigail tries to flirt with Proctor, but he tells her the relationship is over. Proctor during this conversation does show slight signs of the feelings he once felt for Abigail but does well to hide them, as he regrets the affair. Abigail blames Elizabeth for John's behavior, and tells him they will be together again someday. When Betty starts to fit, Parris and the Putnams return with Rebecca Nurse. She has had many children and grandchildren and knows that Betty and Ruth are pretending. She says they will stop when they tire of it. Soon, Rev. Hale arrives at the Parris home. Hale is a famed witch expert from a nearby town. Suddenly, in front of Hale, Abigail changes her story and begins to suggest that Tituba did indeed call on the Devil. Tituba, surprised at this accusation, vehemently denies it. But when Hale and Parris interrogate Tituba, under pressure she confesses to witchcraft, and fingers several other women as "witches" in the village, including Sarah Good and Sarah Osborne. While Tituba and Abigail are accusing women in the town, several other young girls, including Mary Warren (who now works in John Proctor's household) follow Abigail's lead and begin accusing other women as well. This act gives an introductory insight into Abigail's leadership, as she frightens the other girls into following her lead. The girls now have power and in Salem, a place where women, especially young girls, have little influence, they take this opportunity of power by the end of Act One by naming people in the town to be accused of witchcraft. These names have been mentioned, not by the girls or Tituba, but by Parris and others. The names the girls and Tituba mention are regurgitations of names given by the men.

The Crucible Arthur Miller 1953

THE MIGHTY MOTHER, and her son who brings The Smithfield Muses to the ear of Kings, I sing. Say you, her instruments the great! Call'd to this work by Dulness, Jove, and Fate; You by whose care, in vain decried and curst, 5 Still Dunce the second reigns like Dunce the first; Say how the Goddess bade Britannia sleep, And pour'd her Spirit, o'er the land and deep. In eldest time, ere mortals writ or read, Ere Pallas issued from the Thund'rer's head, 10 Dulness o'er all possess'd her ancient right, Daughter of Chaos and eternal Night: Fate in their dotage this fair idiot gave, Gross as her sire, and as her mother grave; Laborious, heavy, busy, bold, and blind, 15 She ruled, in native anarchy, the mind. Still her old empire to restore she tries, For, born a Goddess, Dulness never dies. O thou! whatever title please thine ear, Dean, Drapier, Bickerstaff, or Gulliver! 20 Whether thou choose Cervantes' serious air, Or laugh and shake in Rabelais' easy chair, Or praise the Court, or magnify Mankind, Or thy griev'd country's copper chains unbind; From thy Bœotia tho' her power retires, 25 Mourn not, my Swift! at aught our realm requires. Here pleas'd behold her mighty wings outspread To hatch a new Saturnian age of Lead. Close to those walls where Folly holds her throne, And laughs to think Monroe would take her down, 30 Where o'er the gates, by his famed father's hand, Great Cibber's brazen, brainless brothers stand; One cell there is, conceal'd from vulgar eye, The cave of Poverty and Poetry: Keen hollow winds howl thro' the bleak recess, 35 Emblem of Music caus'd by Emptiness: Hence bards, like Proteus long in vain tied down, Escape in monsters, and amaze the town; Hence Miscellanies spring, the weekly boast Of Curll's chaste press, and Lintot's rubric post; 40 Hence hymning Tyburn's elegiac lines; Hence Journals, Medleys, Merceries, Magazines; Sepulchral Lies, our holy walls to grace, And new-year Odes, and all the Grub-street race. In clouded majesty here Dulness shone, 45 Four guardian Virtues, round, support her throne: Fierce champion Fortitude, that knows no fears

The Dunciad (to Dr. Jonathan Swift) Alexander Pope 1728

The Patron of true Holinesse, Foule Errour doth defeate: Hypocrisie him to entrappe, Doth to his home entreate. Vpon a great aduenture he was bond, That greatest Gloriana to him gaue, That greatest Glorious Queene of Faerie lond, To winne him worship, and her grace to haue, Which of all earthly things he most did craue; And euer as he rode, his hart did earne To proue his puissance in battell braue Vpon his foe, and his new force to learne; Vpon his foe, a Dragon horrible and stearne. A louely Ladie rode him faire beside, Vpon a lowly Asse more white then snow, Yet she much whiter, but the same did hide Vnder a vele, that wimpled was full low, And ouer all a blacke stole she did throw, As one that inly mournd: so was she sad, And heauie sat vpon her palfrey slow: Seemed in heart some hidden care she had, And by her in a line a milke white lambe she lad. So pure and innocent, as that same lambe, She was in life and euery vertuous lore, And by descent from Royall lynage came Of ancient Kings and Queenes, that had of yore Their scepters stretcht from East to Westerne shore, And all the world in their subiection held; Till that infernall feend with foule vprore Forwasted all their land, and them expeld: Whom to auenge, she had this Knight from far co[m]peld. Behind her farre away a Dwarfe did lag, That lasie seemd in being euer last, Or wearied with bearing of her bag Of needments at his backe. Thus as they past, The day with cloudes was suddeine ouercast, And angry Ioue an hideous storme of raine Did poure into his Lemans lap so fast, That euery wight to shrowd it did constrain, And this faire couple eke to shroud the[m]selues were fain. Enforst to seeke some couert nigh at hand, A shadie groue not far away they spide, That promist ayde the tempest to withstand: Whose loftie trees yclad with sommers pride, Did spred so broad, that heauens light did hide, Not perceable with power of any starre: And all within were pathes and alleies wide, With footing worne, and leading inward farre: Faire harbour that them seemes; so in they entred arre. And foorth they passe, with pleasure forward led, Ioying to heare the birdes sweete harmony, Which therein shrouded from the tempest dred, Seemd in their song to scorne the cruell sky. Much can they prayse the trees so straight and hy, The sayling Pine, the Cedar proud and tall, The vine-prop Elme, the Poplar neuer dry, The builder Oake, sole king of forrests all, The Aspine good for staues, the Cypresse funerall. The Laurell, meed of mightie Conquerours And Poets sage, the Firre that weepeth still, The Willow worne of forlorne Paramours, The Eugh obedient to the benders will, The Birch for shaftes, the Sallow for the mill, The Mirrhe sweete bleeding in the bitter wound, The warlike Beech, the Ash for nothing ill, The fruitfull Oliue, and the Platane round, The caruer Holme, the Maple seeldom inward sound. Led with delight, they thus beguile the way, Vntill the blustring storme is ouerblowne; When weening to returne, whence they did stray, They cannot finde that path, which first was showne, But wander too and fro in wayes vnknowne, Furthest from end then, when they neerest weene, That makes them doubt, their wits be not their owne: So many pathes, so many turnings seene, That which of them to take, in diuerse doubt they been.

The Faerie Queene (Canto 1) Edmund Spenser 1596

Mark but this flea, and mark in this, How little that which thou deniest me is; It sucked me first, and now sucks thee, And in this flea our two bloods mingled be; Thou know'st that this cannot be said A sin, nor shame, nor loss of maidenhead, Yet this enjoys before it woo, And pampered swells with one blood made of two, And this, alas, is more than we would do. Oh stay, three lives in one flea spare, Where we almost, nay more than married are. This flea is you and I, and this Our mariage bed, and marriage temple is; Though parents grudge, and you, w'are met, And cloistered in these living walls of jet. Though use make you apt to kill me, Let not to that, self-murder added be, And sacrilege, three sins in killing three. Cruel and sudden, hast thou since Purpled thy nail, in blood of innocence? Wherein could this flea guilty be, Except in that drop which it sucked from thee? Yet thou triumph'st, and say'st that thou Find'st not thy self, nor me the weaker now; 'Tis true; then learn how false, fears be: Just so much honor, when thou yield'st to me, Will waste, as this flea's death took life from thee.

The Flea John Donne posthumously in 1633

As Mr. Pope's note concerning Johnson, alluded to in a former page, refers both to his London, and his Marmor Norfolciense, I have deferred inserting it till now. I am indebted for it to Dr. Percy, the Bishop of Dromore, who permitted me to copy it from the original in his possession. It was presented to his Lordship by Sir Joshua Reynolds, to whom it was given by the son of Mr. Richardson the painter, the person to whom it is addressed. I have transcribed it with minute exactness, that the peculiar mode of writing, and imperfect spelling of that celebrated poet, may be exhibited to the curious in literature. It justifies Swift's epithet of 'Paper-sparing Pope,' for it is written on a slip no larger than a common message-card, and was sent to Mr. Richardson, along with the Imitation of Juvenal. 'This is imitated by one Johnson who put in for a Publick-school in Shropshire, but was disappointed. He has an infirmity of the convulsive kind, that attacks him sometimes, so as to make him a sad Spectacle. Mr. P. from the Merit of this Work which was all the knowledge he had of him endeavour'd to serve him without his own application; & wrote to my Ld gore, but he did not succeed. Mr. Johnson published afterwds another Poem in Latin with Notes the whole very Humerous call'd the Norfolk Prophecy. P.' Johnson had been told of this note; and Sir Joshua Reynolds informed him of the compliment which it contained, but, from delicacy, avoided shewing him the paper itself. When Sir Joshua observed to Johnson that he seemed very desirous to see Pope's note, he answered, 'Who would not be proud to have such a man as Pope so solicitous in inquiring about him?' The infirmity to which Mr. Pope alludes, appeared to me also, as I have elsewhere observed, to be of the convulsive kind, and of the nature of that distemper called St. Vitus's dance; and in this opinion I am confirmed by the description which Sydenham gives of that disease. 'This disorder is a kind of convulsion. It manifests itself by halting or unsteadiness of one of the legs, which the patient draws after him like an ideot. If the hand of the same side be applied to the breast, or any other part of the body, he cannot keep it a moment in the same posture, but it will be drawn into a different one by a convulsion, notwithstanding all his efforts to the contrary.' Sir Joshua Reynolds, however, was of a different opinion, and favoured me with the following paper. 'Those motions or tricks of Dr. Johnson are improperly called convulsions. He could sit motionless, when he was told so to do, as well as any other man; my opinion is that it proceeded from a habit which he had indulged himself in, of accompanying his thoughts with certain untoward actions, and those actions always appeared to me as if they were meant to reprobate some part of his past conduct. Whenever he was not engaged in conversation, such thoughts were sure to rush into his mind; and, for this reason, any company, any employment whatever, he preferred to being alone. The great business of his life (he said) was to escape from himself; this disposition he considered as the disease of his mind, which nothing cured but company.

The Life of Samuel Johnson James Boswell 1791

DORIMANT: "Now for some ages had the pride of Spain/Made the sun shine on half the world in vain." [looking on the note:] "For Mrs Loveit." What a dull insipid thing is a billet-doux written in cold blood, after the heat of the business is over! It is a tax upon good-nature which I have here been labouring to pay, and have done it, but with as much regret as ever fanatic paid the Royal Aid or Church Duties. 'Twill have the same fate, I know, that all my notes to her have had of late, 'twill not be thought kind enough. Faith, women are i' the right when they jealously examine our letters, for in them we always first discover our decay of passion.—Hey! Who waits? [enter HANDY] HANDY: Sir— DORIMANT: Call a footman. HANDY: None of'em are come yet. DORIMANT: Dogs! Will they ever lie snoring a-bed till noon? HANDY: 'Tis all one, sir: if they're up, you indulge 'em so they're ever poaching after whores all the morning. DORIMANT: Take notice henceforward, who's wanting in his duty, the next clap he gets, he shall rot for an example. What vermin are those chattering without? HANDY: Foggy Nan the orange-woman and swearing Tom the shoemaker. DORIMANT: Go; call in that overgrown jade with the flasket of guts before her; fruit is refreshing in a morning. [exit HANDY] DORIMANT: "It is not that I love you less / Than when before your feet I lay" - [enter ORANGE-WOMAN with HANDY] DORIMANT: How now, double-tripe! What news do you bring? ORANGE-WOMAN: News! Here's the best fruit has come to town t'year; gad, I was up before four o'clock this morning, and bought all the choice i' the market. DORIMANT: The nasty refuse of your shop. ORANGE-WOMAN: You need not make mouths at it; I assure you 'tis all culled ware. DORIMANT: The citizens buy better on a holiday in their walk to Totnam. ORANGE-WOMAN: Good or bad, 'tis all one; I never knew you commend anything. Lord! would the ladies had heard you talk of 'em as I have done. Here, bid your man give me an angel. [sets down the fruit] DORIMANT: [to HANDY] Give the bawd her fruit again. ORANGE-WOMAN: Well, on my conscience, there never was the like of you. God's my life, I had almost forgot to tell you there is a young gentlewoman lately come to town with her mother, that is so taken with you.

The Man of Mode George Etherege 1676

Like dancers on the ropes poor poets fare, Most perish young, the rest in danger are; This, one would think, should make our authors wary, But, gamester like, the giddy fools miscarry. A lucky hand or two so tempts 'em on, They cannot leave off play till they're undone. With modest fears a muse does first begin, Like a young wench newly enticed to sin; But tickled once with praise, by her good will, The wanton fool would never more lie still. 'Tis an old mistress you'll meet here to-night, Whose charms you once have look'd on with delight; But now of late such dirty drabs have known ye, A muse o'th' better sort's ashamed to own ye. Nature well drawn, and wit, must now give place To gaudy nonsense and to dull grimace: Nor is it strange that you should like so much That kind of wit, for most of yours is such. But I'm afraid that while to France we go, To bring you home fine dresses, dance, and show, The stage, like you, will but more foppish grow. Of foreign wares why should we fetch the scum When we can be so richly served at home? For, heaven be thank'd, 'tis not so wise an age But your own follies may supply the stage. Though often plough'd, there's no great fear the soil Should barren grow by the too frequent toil, While at your doors are to be daily found Such loads of dunghill to manure the ground. 'Tis by your follies that we players thrive, As the physicians by diseases live; And as each year some new distemper reigns, Whose friendly poison helps t'increase their gains, So among you there starts up every day Some new unheard-of fool for us to play. Then for your own sakes be not too severe, Nor what you all admire at home, damn here: Since each is fond of his own ugly face, Why should you, when we hold it, break the glass?

The Man of Mode (Prolouge) George Etherege 1676

Her eyes the glow-worm lend thee, The shooting stars attend thee; And the elves also, Whose little eyes glow Like the sparks of fire, befriend thee. No Will-o'-th'-Wisp mis-light thee, Nor snake or slow-worm bite thee; But on, on thy way, Not making a stay, Since ghost there's none to affright thee. Let not the dark thee cumber; What though the moon does slumber? The stars of the night Will lend thee their light, Like tapers clear without number. Then ***** let me woo thee, Thus, thus to come unto me; And when I shall meet Thy silv'ry feet, My soul I'll pour into thee.

The Night Piece, to Julia Robert Herrick 1648

.....And I will make thee beds of Roses And a thousand fragrant posies, A cap of flowers, and a kirtle Embroidered all with leaves of Myrtle; A gown made of the finest wool Which from our pretty Lambs we pull; Fair lined slippers for the cold, With buckles of the purest gold; A belt of straw and Ivy buds, With Coral clasps and Amber studs: And if these pleasures may thee move, Come live with me, and be my love. The Shepherds' Swains shall dance and sing For thy delight each May-morning: If these delights thy mind may move, Then live with me, and be my love.

The Passionate Shepherd to His Love Christopher Marlowe 1599

I propose to treat of Poetry in itself and of its various kinds, noting the essential quality of each; to inquire into the structure of the plot as requisite to a good poem; into the number and nature of the parts of which a poem is composed; and similarly into whatever else falls within the same inquiry. Following, then, the order of nature, let us begin with the principles which come first. Epic poetry and Tragedy, Comedy also and Dithyrambic: poetry, and the music of the flute and of the lyre in most of their forms, are all in their general conception modes of imitation. They differ, however, from one: another in three respects,—the medium, the objects, the manner or mode of imitation, being in each case distinct. For as there are persons who, by conscious art or mere habit, imitate and represent various objects through the medium of colour and form, or again by the voice; so in the arts above mentioned, taken as a whole, the imitation is produced by rhythm, language, or 'harmony,' either singly or combined. Thus in the music of the flute and of the lyre, 'harmony' and rhythm alone are employed; also in other arts, such as that of the shepherd's pipe, which are essentially similar to these. In dancing, rhythm alone is used without 'harmony'; for even dancing imitates character, emotion, and action, by rhythmical movement. There is another art which imitates by means of language alone, and that either in prose or verse—which, verse, again, may either combine different metres or consist of but one kind—but this has hitherto been without a name. For there is no common term we could apply to the mimes of Sophron and Xenarchus and the Socratic dialogues on the one hand; and, on the other, to poetic imitations in iambic, elegiac, or any similar metre. People do, indeed, add the word 'maker' or 'poet' to the name of the metre, and speak of elegiac poets, or epic (that is, hexameter) poets, as if it were not the imitation that makes the poet, but the verse that entitles them all indiscriminately to the name. Even when a treatise on medicine or natural science is brought out in verse, the name of poet is by custom given to the author; and yet Homer and Empedocles have nothing in common but the metre, so that it would be right to call the one poet, the other physicist rather than poet. On the same principle, even if a writer in his poetic imitation were to combine all metres, as Chaeremon did in his Centaur, which is a medley composed of metres of all kinds, we should bring him too under the general term poet. So much then for these distinctions. There are, again, some arts which employ all the means above mentioned, namely, rhythm, tune, and metre. Such are Dithyrambic and Nomic poetry, and also Tragedy and Comedy; but between them the difference is, that in the first two cases these means are all employed in combination, in the latter, now one means is employed, now another. Such, then, are the differences of the arts with respect to the medium of imitation.

The Poetics Aristotle 355 BC

LADY SNEERWELL at her dressing table with LAPPET; MISS VERJUICE drinking chocolate LADY SNEERWELL. The Paragraphs you say were all inserted: VERJUICE. They were Madam—and as I copied them myself in a feigned Hand there can be no suspicion whence they came. LADY SNEERWELL. Did you circulate the Report of Lady Brittle's Intrigue with Captain Boastall? VERJUICE. Madam by this Time Lady Brittle is the Talk of half the Town—and I doubt not in a week the Men will toast her as a Demirep. LADY SNEERWELL. What have you done as to the insinuation as to a certain Baronet's Lady and a certain Cook. VERJUICE. That is in as fine a Train as your Ladyship could wish. I told the story yesterday to my own maid with directions to communicate it directly to my Hairdresser. He I am informed has a Brother who courts a Milliners' Prentice in Pallmall whose mistress has a first cousin whose sister is Feme [Femme] de Chambre to Mrs. Clackit—so that in the common course of Things it must reach Mrs. Clackit's Ears within four-and-twenty hours and then you know the Business is as good as done. LADY SNEERWELL. Why truly Mrs. Clackit has a very pretty Talent—a great deal of industry—yet—yes—been tolerably successful in her way—To my knowledge she has been the cause of breaking off six matches[,] of three sons being disinherited and four Daughters being turned out of Doors. Of three several Elopements, as many close confinements—nine separate maintenances and two Divorces.—nay I have more than once traced her causing a Tete-a-Tete in the Town and Country Magazine—when the Parties perhaps had never seen each other's Faces before in the course of their Lives. VERJUICE. She certainly has Talents. LADY SNEERWELL. But her manner is gross. VERJUICE. 'Tis very true. She generally designs well[,] has a free tongue and a bold invention—but her colouring is too dark and her outline often extravagant—She wants that delicacy of Tint—and mellowness of sneer—which distinguish your Ladyship's Scandal. LADY SNEERWELL. Ah you are Partial Verjuice. VERJUICE. Not in the least—everybody allows that Lady Sneerwell can do more with a word or a Look than many can with the most laboured Detail even when they happen to have a little truth on their side to support it. LADY SNEERWELL. Yes my dear Verjuice. I am no Hypocrite to deny the satisfaction I reap from the Success of my Efforts. Wounded myself, in the early part of my Life by the envenomed Tongue of Slander I confess I have since known no Pleasure equal to the reducing others to the Level of my own injured Reputation. VERJUICE. Nothing can be more natural—But my dear Lady Sneerwell There is one affair in which you have lately employed me, wherein, I confess I am at a Loss to guess your motives. LADY SNEERWELL. I conceive you mean with respect to my neighbour, Sir Peter Teazle, and his Family—Lappet.—And has my conduct in this matter really appeared to you so mysterious?

The School for Scandal Richard Sheridan 1777

A ****** **** ******! tell me, I beseech you, Needs there a ******* this modish art to teach you? No need of lessons now, the knowing think; We might as well be taught to eat and drink. Caused by a dearth of scandal, should the vapours Distress our fair ones—let them read the papers; Their powerful mixtures such disorders hit; Crave what you will—there's quantum sufficit. "Lord!" cries my Lady Wormwood (who loves tattle, And puts much salt and pepper in her prattle), Just risen at noon, all night at cards when threshing Strong tea and scandal—"Bless me, how refreshing! Give me the papers, Lisp—how bold and free! [Sips.] LAST NIGHT LORD L. [Sips] WAS CAUGHT WITH LADY D. For aching heads what charming sal volatile! [Sips.] IF MRS. B. WILL STILL CONTINUE FLIRTING, WE HOPE SHE'LL draw, OR WE'LL undraw THE CURTAIN. Fine satire, poz—in public all abuse it, But, by ourselves [Sips], our praise we can't refuse it. Now, Lisp, read you—there, at that dash and star:" "Yes, ma'am—A CERTAIN LORD HAD BEST BEWARE, WHO LIVES NOT TWENTY MILES FROM GROSVENOR SQUARE; FOR, SHOULD HE LADY W. FIND WILLING, WORMWOOD IS BITTER"——"Oh! that's me! the villain! Throw it behind the fire, and never more Let that vile paper come within my door." Thus at our friends we laugh, who feel the dart; To reach our feelings, we ourselves must smart. Is our young bard so young, to think that he Can stop the full spring-tide of calumny? Knows he the world so little, and its trade? Alas! the devil's sooner raised than laid. So strong, so swift, the monster there's no gagging: Cut Scandal's head off, still the tongue is wagging. Proud of your smiles once lavishly bestow'd, Again our young Don Quixote takes the road; To show his gratitude he draws his pen, And seeks his hydra, Scandal, in his den. For your applause all perils he would through— He'll fight—that's write—a cavalliero true, Till every drop of blood—that's ink—is spilt for you.

The School for Scandal (prologue) Richard Sheridan 1777

Surely some revelation is at hand; Surely the Second Coming is at hand. The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert A shape with lion body and the head of a man, A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun, Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds. The darkness drops again; but now I know That twenty centuries of stony sleep Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle, And what rough beast, its hour come round at last, Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

The Second Coming William Butler Yeates 1921

Robert Cohn was once middleweight boxing champion of Princeton. Do not think that I am very much impressed by that as a boxing title, but it meant a lot to Cohn. He cared nothing for boxing, in fact he disliked it, but he learned it painfully and thoroughly to counteract the feeling of inferiority and shyness he had felt on being treated as a Jew at Princeton. There was a certain inner comfort in knowing he could knock down anybody who was snooty to him, although, being very shy and a thoroughly nice boy, he never fought except in the gym. He was Spider Kelly's star pupil. Spider Kelly taught all his young gentlemen to box like featherweights, no matter whether they weighed one hundred and five or two hundred and five pounds. But it seemed to fit Cohn. He was really very fast. He was so good that Spider promptly overmatched him and got his nose permanently flattened. This increased Cohn's distaste for boxing, but it gave him a certain satisfaction of some strange sort, and it certainly improved his nose. In his last year at Princeton he read too much and took to wearing spectacles. I never met any one of his class who remembered him. They did not even remember that he was middleweight boxing champion. I mistrust all frank and simple people, especially when their stories hold together, and I always had a suspicion that perhaps Robert Cohn had never been middleweight boxing champion, and that perhaps a horse had stepped on his face, or that maybe his mother had been frightened or seen something, or that he had, maybe, bumped into something as a young child, but I finally had somebody verify the story from Spider Kelly. Spider Kelly not only remembered Cohn. He had often wondered what had become of him.

The Sun Also Rises Ernest Hemingway 1926

Busy old fool, unruly sun, Why dost thou thus, Through windows, and through curtains call on us? Must to thy motions lovers' seasons run? Saucy pedantic wretch, go chide Late school boys and sour prentices, Go tell court huntsmen that the king will ride, Call country ants to harvest offices, Love, all alike, no season knows nor clime, Nor hours, days, months, which are the rags of time. Thy beams, so reverend and strong Why shouldst thou think? I could eclipse and cloud them with a wink, But that I would not lose her sight so long; If her eyes have not blinded thine, Look, and tomorrow late, tell me, Whether both th' Indias of spice and mine Be where thou leftst them, or lie here with me. Ask for those kings whom thou saw'st yesterday, And thou shalt hear, All here in one bed lay. She's all states, and all princes, I, Nothing else is. Princes do but play us; compared to this, All honor's mimic, all wealth alchemy. Thou, sun, art half as happy as we, In that the world's contracted thus. Thine age asks ease, and since thy duties be To warm the world, that's done in warming us. Shine here to us, and thou art everywhere; This bed thy center is, these walls, thy sphere.

The Sun Rising John Donne 1633

Let observation with extensive view, Survey mankind, from China to Peru; Remark each anxious toil, each eager strife, And watch the busy scenes of crowded life; Then say how hope and fear, desire and hate, O'erspread with snares the clouded maze of fate, Where wav'ring man, betray'd by vent'rous pride To tread the dreary paths without a guide, As treach'rous phantoms in the mist delude, Shuns fancied ills, or chases airy good. How rarely reason guides the stubborn choice, Rules the bold hand, or prompts the suppliant voice, How nations sink, by darling schemes oppress'd, When vengeance listens to the fool's request. Fate wings with ev'ry wish th' afflictive dart, Each gift of nature, and each grace of art, With fatal heat impetuous courage glows, With fatal sweetness elocution flows, Impeachment stops the speaker's pow'rful breath, And restless fire precipitates on death. But scarce observ'd the knowing and the bold, Fall in the gen'ral massacre of gold; Wide-wasting pest! that rages unconfin'd, And crowds with crimes the records of mankind, For gold his sword the hireling ruffian draws, For gold the hireling judge distorts the laws; Wealth heap'd on wealth, nor truth nor safety buys, The dangers gather as the treasures rise. Let hist'ry tell where rival kings command, And dubious title shakes the madded land, When statutes glean the refuse of the sword, How much more safe the vassal than the lord, Low sculks the hind beneath the rage of pow'r, And leaves the wealthy traitor in the Tow'r, Untouch'd his cottage, and his slumbers sound, Tho' confiscation's vultures hover round. The needy traveller, serene and gay, Walks the wild heath, and sings his toil away. Does envy seize thee? crush th' upbraiding joy, Increase his riches and his peace destroy, New fears in dire vicissitude invade, The rustling brake alarms, and quiv'ring shade, Nor light nor darkness bring his pain relief. One shews the plunder, and one hides the thief.

The Vanity of Human Wishes Samuel Johnson 1749

MIRA. You are a fortunate man, Mr. Fainall. FAIN. Have we done? MIRA. What you please. I'll play on to entertain you. FAIN. No, I'll give you your revenge another time, when you are not so indifferent; you are thinking of something else now, and play too negligently: the coldness of a losing gamester lessens the pleasure of the winner. I'd no more play with a man that slighted his ill fortune than I'd make love to a woman who undervalued the loss of her reputation. MIRA. You have a taste extremely delicate, and are for refining on your pleasures. FAIN. Prithee, why so reserved? Something has put you out of humour. MIRA. Not at all: I happen to be grave to-day, and you are gay; that's all. FAIN. Confess, Millamant and you quarrelled last night, after I left you; my fair cousin has some humours that would tempt the patience of a Stoic. What, some coxcomb came in, and was well received by her, while you were by? MIRA. Witwoud and Petulant, and what was worse, her aunt, your wife's mother, my evil genius—or to sum up all in her own name, my old Lady Wishfort came in. FAIN. Oh, there it is then: she has a lasting passion for you, and with reason.—What, then my wife was there? MIRA. Yes, and Mrs. Marwood and three or four more, whom I never saw before; seeing me, they all put on their grave faces, whispered one another, then complained aloud of the vapours, and after fell into a profound silence. FAIN. They had a mind to be rid of you. MIRA. For which reason I resolved not to stir. At last the good old lady broke through her painful taciturnity with an invective against long visits. I would not have understood her, but Millamant joining in the argument, I rose and with a constrained smile told her, I thought nothing was so easy as to know when a visit began to be troublesome; she reddened and I withdrew, without expecting her reply. FAIN. You were to blame to resent what she spoke only in compliance with her aunt. MIRA. She is more mistress of herself than to be under the necessity of such a resignation. FAIN. What? though half her fortune depends upon her marrying with my lady's approbation? MIRA. I was then in such a humour, that I should have been better pleased if she had been less discreet. FAIN. Now I remember, I wonder not they were weary of you; last night was one of their cabal-nights: they have 'em three times a week and meet by turns at one another's apartments, where they come together like the coroner's inquest, to sit upon the murdered reputations of the week. You and I are excluded, and it was once proposed that all the male sex should be excepted; but somebody moved that to avoid scandal there might be one man of the community, upon which motion Witwoud and Petulant were enrolled members.

The Way of the World (prologue) William Congreve 1700

Of those few fools, who with ill stars are curst, Sure scribbling fools, called poets, fare the worst: For they're a sort of fools which fortune makes, And, after she has made 'em fools, forsakes. With Nature's oafs 'tis quite a diff'rent case, For Fortune favours all her idiot race. In her own nest the cuckoo eggs we find, O'er which she broods to hatch the changeling kind: No portion for her own she has to spare, So much she dotes on her adopted care. Poets are bubbles, by the town drawn in, Suffered at first some trifling stakes to win: But what unequal hazards do they run! Each time they write they venture all they've won: The Squire that's buttered still, is sure to be undone. This author, heretofore, has found your favour, But pleads no merit from his past behaviour. To build on that might prove a vain presumption, Should grants to poets made admit resumption, And in Parnassus he must lose his seat, If that be found a forfeited estate. He owns, with toil he wrought the following scenes, But if they're naught ne'er spare him for his pains: Damn him the more; have no commiseration For dulness on mature deliberation. He swears he'll not resent one hissed-off scene, Nor, like those peevish wits, his play maintain, Who, to assert their sense, your taste arraign. Some plot we think he has, and some new thought; Some humour too, no farce—but that's a fault. Satire, he thinks, you ought not to expect; For so reformed a town who dares correct? To please, this time, has been his sole pretence, He'll not instruct, lest it should give offence. Should he by chance a knave or fool expose, That hurts none here, sure here are none of those. In short, our play shall (with your leave to show it) Give you one instance of a passive poet, Who to your judgments yields all resignation: So save or damn, after your own discretion.

The Way of the World (prologue) William Congreve 1700

And acounte with thee, Conscience, so me Crist helpe, How thow lernest the peple, the lered and the lewed!' I am fayn of that foreward,' seide the freke thanne, And ryt right to Reson and rouneth in his ere, And seide hym as the Kyng seide, and sithen took his leve. I shal arraye me to ryde,' quod Reson, -reste thee a while,' And called Caton his knave, curteis of speche, And also Tomme Trewe-tonge-tel-me-no-tales Ne lesynge-to-laughen-of-for-I-loved-hem-nevere. Set my sadel upon Suffre-til-l-se-my-tyme, And lat warroke hym wel with witty-wordes gerthes. Hange on hym the hevy brydel to holde his heed lowe, For he wol make ""wehee'' twies er he be there.' Thanne Conscience on his capul caireth forth faste, And Reson with hym ryt, rownynge togideres Whiche maistries Mede maketh on this erthe. Oon Waryn Wisdom and Witty his fere Folwed hem faste, for thei hadde to doone In th'Eseheker and in the Chauncerye, to ben descharged of thynges, And riden faste for Reson sholde rede hem the beste For to save hem for silver from shame and from harmes. A[c] Conscience knew hem wel, thei loved coveitise, And bad Reson ryde faste and recche of hir neither: "Ther are wiles in hire wordes, and with Mede thei dweneth-- Ther as wrathe and wranglynge is, ther wynne thei silver; Ac there is love and leautee, thei wol noght come there: Contricio et infelicitas in viis eorum &c. Thei ne gyveth noght of God one goose wynge: Non est timor Dei ante oculos eorum &c. For thei wolde do moore for a dozeyne chiknes Than for the love of Oure Lorde or alle hise leeve seintes!

The vision of Piers Plowman William Langland ca. 1380 (Same time as Canterbury Tales however, unlike CT, written in alliterative verse.)

Time's wingèd chariot hurrying near; And yonder all before us lie Deserts of vast eternity. Thy beauty shall no more be found; Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound My echoing song; then worms shall try That long-preserved virginity, And your quaint honour turn to dust, And into ashes all my lust; The grave's a fine and private place, But none, I think, do there embrace. Now therefore, while the youthful hue Sits on thy skin like morning dew, And while thy willing soul transpires At every pore with instant fires, Now let us sport us while we may, And now, like amorous birds of prey, Rather at once our time devour Than languish in his slow-chapped power. Let us roll all our strength and all Our sweetness up into one ball, And tear our pleasures with rough strife Through the iron gates of life: Thus, though we cannot make our sun Stand still, yet we will make him run.

To His Coy Mistress Andrew Marvell 1681

While I confess thy writings to be such As neither man nor muse can praise too much; 'Tis true, and all men's suffrage. But these ways Were not the paths I meant unto thy praise; For seeliest ignorance on these may light, Which, when it sounds at best, but echoes right; Or blind affection, which doth ne'er advance The truth, but gropes, and urgeth all by chance; Or crafty malice might pretend this praise, And think to ruin, where it seem'd to raise. These are, as some infamous bawd or ***** Should praise a matron; what could hurt her more? But thou art proof against them, and indeed, Above th' ill fortune of them, or the need. I therefore will begin. Soul of the age! The applause, delight, the wonder of our stage!

To the Memory of My Beloved Master William Shakespeare Ben Jonson 1623 (Quizlet detects profanity in this term. Unless you change them, these words will be replaced with **** when you save this set.)

There lies the port; the vessel puffs her sail: There gloom the dark, broad seas. My mariners, Souls that have toil'd, and wrought, and thought with me— That ever with a frolic welcome took The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed Free hearts, free foreheads—you and I are old; Old age hath yet his honour and his toil; Death closes all: but something ere the end, Some work of noble note, may yet be done, Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods. The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks: The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends, 'T is not too late to seek a newer world. Push off, and sitting well in order smite The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths Of all the western stars, until I die. It may be that the gulfs will wash us down: It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles, And see the great Achilles, whom we knew. Tho' much is taken, much abides; and tho' We are not now that strength which in old days Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are; One equal temper of heroic hearts, Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

Ulysses Alfred Lord Tennyson 1842

Display thy breasts, my ****, there let me Behold that circummortal purity; Between whose glories, there my lips I'll lay, Ravished in that fair Via Lactea.

Upon Julia's Breasts Robert Herrick 1648

Whenas in silks my ****** goes, Then, then (methinks) how sweetly flows That liquefaction of her clothes. Next, when I cast mine eyes, and see That brave vibration each way free, O how that glittering taketh me!

Upon Julia's Clothes Robert Herrick 1648

There are few circumstances among those which make up the present condition of human knowledge, more unlike what might have been expected, or more significant of the backward state in which speculation on the most important subjects still lingers, than the little progress which has been made in the decision of the controversy respecting the criterion of right and wrong. From the dawn of philosophy, the question concerning the summum bonum, or, what is the same thing, concerning the foundation of morality, has been accounted the main problem in speculative thought, has occupied the most gifted intellects, and divided them into sects and schools, carrying on a vigorous warfare against one another. And after more than two thousand years the same discussions continue, philosophers are still ranged under the same contending banners, and neither thinkers nor mankind at large seem nearer to being unanimous on the subject, than when the youth Socrates listened to the old Protagoras, and asserted (if Plato's dialogue be grounded on a real conversation) the theory of utilitarianism against the popular morality of the so-called sophist. It is true that similar confusion and uncertainty, and in some cases similar discordance, exist respecting the first principles of all the sciences, not excepting that which is deemed the most certain of them, mathematics; without much impairing, generally indeed without impairing at all, the trustworthiness of the conclusions of those sciences. An apparent anomaly, the explanation of which is, that the detailed doctrines of a science are not usually deduced from, nor depend for their evidence upon, what are called its first principles. Were it not so, there would be no science more precarious, or whose conclusions were more insufficiently made out, than algebra; which derives none of its certainty from what are commonly taught to learners as its elements, since these, as laid down by some of its most eminent teachers, are as full of fictions as English law, and of mysteries as theology. The truths which are ultimately accepted as the first principles of a science, are really the last results of metaphysical analysis, practised on the elementary notions with which the science is conversant; and their relation to the science is not that of foundations to an edifice, but of roots to a tree, which may perform their office equally well though they be never dug down to and exposed to light. But though in science the particular truths precede the general theory, the contrary might be expected to be the case with a practical art, such as morals or legislation. All action is for the sake of some end, and rules of action, it seems natural to suppose, must take their whole character and colour from the end to which they are subservient. When we engage in a pursuit, a clear and precise conception of what we are pursuing would seem to be the first thing we need, instead of the last we are to look forward to. A test of right and wrong must be the means, one would think, of ascertaining what is right or wrong, and not a consequence of having already ascertained it.

Utilitarianism John Stuart Mill 1861

Who shall blame him? Who will not secretly rejoice when the hero puts his armour off, and halts by the window and gazes at his wife and son, who, very distant at first, gradually come closer and closer, till lips and book and head are clearly before him, though still lovely and unfamiliar from the intensity of his isolation and the waste of ages and the perishing of the stars, and finally putting his pipe in his pocket and bending his magnificent head before her—who will blame him if he does homage to the beauty of the world? ------- It partook . . . of eternity . . . there is a coherence in things, a stability; something, she meant, is immune from change, and shines out (she glanced at the window with its ripple of reflected lights) in the face of the flowing, the fleeting, the spectral, like a ruby; so that again tonight she had the feeling she had had once today, already, of peace, of rest. Of such moments, she thought, the thing is made that endures.

Virginia Woolf To the Lighthouse 1927