Important Quotes

Culture and Anarchy

"Barbarians, Philistines, And Populace"

Culture and Anarchy

"Men Of Culture Are The True Apostles Of Equality"

"My Last Duchess"

"Paint Must never hope to reproduce the faint Half-flush that dies along her throat:" (17-19)

Absalom and Achitophel

. . . the people have a right supreme To make their kings; for kings are made for them. All empire is no more than pow'r in trust, Which, when resum'd, can be no longer just. Succession, for the general good design'd, In its own wrong a nation cannot bind; If altering that the people can relieve, Better one suffer than a nation grieve.

Holy Sonnets

At the round earth's imagined corners, blow Your trumpets, Angels, and arise, arise From death, you numberless infinities Of souls, and to your scattered bodies go, All whom the flood did, and fire shall o'erthrow, All whom war, dearth, age, agues, tyrannies, Despair, law, chance, hath slain, and you whose eyes, Shall behold God, and never taste death's woe. But let them sleep, Lord, and me mourn a space, For, if above all these, my sins abound, 'Tis late to ask abundance of thy grace, When we are there; here on this lowly ground, Teach me how to repent; for that's as good As if thou hadst seal'd my pardon, with thy blood.

A Midsummer Night's Dream

Ay me, for aught that I could ever read, Could ever hear by tale or history, The course of true love never did run smooth. . . .

Holy Sonnets

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 usurpt town, to another due, Labour 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 loved 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.

"Because I could not stop for death,"

Because I could not stop for Death - He kindly stopped for me - The Carriage held but just Ourselves - And Immortality. We slowly drove - He knew no haste And I had put away My labor and my leisure too, For His Civility - We passed the School, where Children strove At Recess - in the Ring - We passed the Fields of Gazing Grain - We passed the Setting Sun - Or rather - He passed us - The Dews drew quivering and chill - For only Gossamer, my Gown - My Tippet - only Tulle - We paused before a House that seemed A Swelling of the Ground - The Roof was scarcely visible - The Cornice - in the Ground - Since then - 'tis Centuries - and yet Feels shorter than the Day I first surmised the Horses' Heads Were toward Eternity -

Solitary Reaper

Behold her, single in the field, Yon solitary Highland Lass! Reaping and singing by herself; (1-3)

Beowulf

Beowulf got ready, donned his war-gear, indifferent to death; his mighty, hand-forged, fine-webbed mail would soon meet with the menace underwater. It would keep the bone-cage of his body safe: . . . [His helmet] was of beaten gold, princely headgear hooped and hasped by a weapon-smith who had worked wonders. . . . (1442-1452)

Frankenstein

Did I request thee, Maker, from my clay To mould me Man, did I solicit thee From darkness to promote me?

Holy Sonnets

Father, part of his double interest Unto thy kingdom, thy Son gives to me, His jointure in the knotty Trinity He keeps, and gives to me his death's conquest. This Lamb, whose death with life the world hath blest, Was from the world's beginning slain, and he Hath made two Wills which with the Legacy Of his and thy kingdom do thy Sons invest. Yet such are thy laws that men argue yet Whether a man those statutes can fulfil; None doth; but all-healing grace and spirit Revive again what law and letter kill. Thy law's abridgement, and thy last command Is all but love; Oh let this last Will stand!

Jane Eyre

Feeling . . . clamoured wildly. "Oh, comply!" it said. ". . . soothe him; save him; love him; tell him you love him and will be his. Who in the world cares for you? or who will be injured by what you do?" Still indomitable was the reply: "I care for myself. The more solitary, the more friendless, the more unsustained I am, the more I will respect myself. I will keep the law given by God; sanctioned by man. I will hold to the principles received by me when I was sane, and not mad—as I am now. Laws and principles are not for the times when there is no temptation. . . . They have a worth—so I have always believed; and if I cannot believe it now, it is because I am insane—quite insane: with my veins running fire, and my heart beating faster than I can count its throbs."

"Lines Composed A Few Miles Above Tintern Abbey blank verse

Five years have past; five summers, with the length Of five long winters! (1-2)

"Lines Composed A Few Miles Above Tintern Abbey..."

I have [...] felt in the blood, and felt along the heart; And passing even into my purer mind, With tranquil restoration: (26-30)

"Song" ["Go and Catch a Falling Star"]

If thou be'st born to strange sights, Things invisible to see, Ride ten thousand days and nights, Till age snow white hairs on thee, Thou, when thou return'st, wilt tell me, All strange wonders that befell thee, And swear, No where Lives a woman true, and fair.

"Song" ["Go and Catch a Falling Star"]

If thou find'st one, let me know, Such a pilgrimage were sweet; Yet do not, I would not go, Though at next door we might meet; Though she were true, when you met her, And last, till you write your letter, Yet she Will be False, ere I come, to two, or three.

Henry V

If we are marked to die, we are enough To do our country loss; and if to live, The fewer men, the greater share of honour. God's will, I pray thee wish not one man more. By Jove, I am not covetous for gold, . . . But if it be a sin to covet honour I am the most offending soul alive. No, faith, my coz, wish not a man from England. God's peace, I would not lose so great an honour As one man more methinks would share from me For the best hope I have. O do not wish one more. Rather proclaim it presently through my host That he which hath no stomach to this fight, Let him depart. His passport shall be made And crowns for convoy put into his purse. We would not die in that man's company That fears his fellowship to die with us. (IV.iii.20-39)

A Midsummer Night's Dream

If we shadows have offended, Think but this, and all is mended: That you have but slumbered here, While these visions did appear; And this weak and idle theme, No more yielding but a dream, Gentles, do not reprehend. If you pardon, we will mend.

Dover Beach

Into his mind the turbid ebb and flow Of human misery; we (17-18)

Pride and Prejudice

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife.

The Flea

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.

AMORETTI

Most glorious Lord of life, that on this day, Didst make thy triumph over death and sin: And having harrow'd hell, didst bring away Captivity thence captive, us to win: This joyous day, dear Lord, with joy begin, And grant that we for whom thou diddest die, Being with thy dear blood clean wash'd from sin, May live for ever in felicity. And that thy love we weighing worthily, May likewise love thee for the same again: And for thy sake, that all like dear didst buy, With love may one another entertain. So let us love, dear love, like as we ought, Love is the lesson which the Lord us taught.

Joseph Andrews

Mr. Joseph Andrews, the hero of our ensuing history, was esteemed to be the only son of Gaffar and Gammer Andrews, and brother to the illustrious Pamela, whose virtue is at present so famous. (1.2.1)

Joseph Andrews

Mrs. Tow-wouse then armed herself with the spit: but was prevented from executing any dreadful purpose by Mr. Adams [...]. (1.17.6)

Gulliver's Travels

My Reconcilement to the Yahoo-kind in general might not be so difficult, if they would be content with those Vices and Follies only which Nature hath entitled them to. I am not in the least provoked at the Sight of a Lawyer, a Pick-pocket, a Colonel. . . . This is all according to the due Course of Things: But, when I behold a Lump of Deformity, and Diseases both in Body and Mind, smitten with Pride, it immediately breaks all the Measures of my Patience; neither shall I ever be able to comprehend how such an Animal and such a Vice could tally together.

"The Good Morrow,"

My face in thine eye, thine in mine appears, And true plain hearts do in the faces rest; Where can we find two better hemispheres, Without sharp north, without declining west? Whatever dies, was not mixed equally; If our two loves be one, or, thou and I Love so alike, that none do slacken, none can die.

Gulliver's Travels

My little Friend Grildrig. . . . I cannot but conclude the Bulk of your Natives, to be the most pernicious Race of little odious Vermin that Nature ever suffered to crawl upon the Surface of the Earth.

Shakespeare Sonnet 130

My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun; Coral is far more red than her lips' red; If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun; If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head. I have seen roses damasked, red and white, But no such roses see I in her cheeks; And in some perfumes is there more delight Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks. I love to hear her speak, yet well I know That music hath a far more pleasing sound; I grant I never saw a goddess go; My mistress when she walks treads on the ground. And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare As any she belied with false compare.

Narrative of the Life of Frederick Douglass

My natural elasticity was crushed, my intellect languished, the disposition to read departed, the cheerful spark that lingered about my eye died; the dark night of slavery closed in upon me; and behold a man transformed into a brute!

Solitary Reaper

No Nightingale did ever chaunt More welcome notes to weary bands Of travellers in some shady haunt, Among Arabian sands: (9-12)

"Lines Composed A Few Miles Above Tintern Abbey..."

Nor less, I trust, To them I may have owed another gift, Of aspect more sublime; that blessed mood, In which the burthen of the mystery, In which the heavy and the weary weight Of all this unintelligible world, Is lightened: (35-40)

Caedmon`s Hymn

Now we must praise heaven-kingdom's Guardian (1)

Caedmon`s Hymn

Now we must praise heaven-kingdom's Guardian,

Astrophil and Stella

O Grammar rules, O now your virtues show; So children still read you with awful eyes, As my young Dove may in your precepts wise Her grant to me, by her own virtue know. For late with heart most high, with eyes most low, I crav'd the thing which ever she denies: She lightning Love, displaying Venus' skies, Least once should not be heard, twice said, No, No. Sing then my Muse, now Io Pæan sing, Heav'ns envy not at my high triumphing: But Grammar's force with sweet success confirm, For Grammar says (O this dear Stella weigh,) For Grammar says (to Grammar who says nay) That in one speech two Negatives affirm.

Joseph Andrews

O Love, what monstrous tricks dost thou play with thy votaries of both sexes [...] Their follies are thy delight! (1.7.7)

Solitary Reaper

O listen! for the Vale profound Is overflowing with the sound. (7-8)

Hamlet

O that this too too solid flesh would melt, Thaw, and resolve itself into a dew! Or that the Everlasting had not fix'd His canon 'gainst self-slaughter! O God! O God! How weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable Seem to me all the uses of this world! Fie on't! O fie! 'tis an unweeded garden, That grows to seed; things rank and gross in nature Possess it merely. That it should come to this! But two months dead!—nay, not so much, not two: So excellent a king; that was, to this, Hyperion to a satyr; so loving to my mother, That he might not beteem the winds of heaven Visit her face too roughly. Heaven and earth! Must I remember? Why, she would hang on him As if increase of appetite had grown By what it fed on: and yet, within a month,— Let me not think on't,—Frailty, thy name is woman!— A little month; or ere those shoes were old With which she followed my poor father's body Like Niobe, all tears;—why she, even she,— O God! a beast that wants discourse of reason, Would have mourn'd longer,—married with mine uncle, My father's brother; but no more like my father Than I to Hercules: within a month; Ere yet the salt of most unrighteous tears Had left the flushing in her galled eyes, She married:— O, most wicked speed, to post With such dexterity to incestuous sheets! It is not, nor it cannot come to good; But break my heart,—for I must hold my tongue.

Dover Beach

Of human misery; we Find also in the sound a thought, Hearing it by this distant northern sea. (18-20)

Absalom and Achitophel

Of these the false Achitophel was first; A name to all succeeding ages curst: For close designs and crooked counsels fit; Sagacious, bold, and turbulent of wit; . . . A fiery soul, which, working out its way Fretted the pigmy body to decay, . . . Great wits are sure to madness near allied, And thin partitions do their bounds divide; Else why should he, with wealth and honor blest, Refuse his age the needful hours of rest? Punish a body which he could not please; Bankrupt of life, yet prodigal of ease? And all to leave what with his toil he won, To that unfeather'd two-legg'd thing, a son?

The Rape of the Lock

Oft when the World imagine Women stray, The Sylphs thro' mystick Mazes guide their Way, Thro' all the giddy Circle they pursue, And old Impertinence expel by new. (I.91-94)

Holy Sonnets

Oh my black soul! now art thou summoned By sickness, death's herald, and champion; Thou art like a pilgrim, which abroad hath done Treason, and durst not turn to whence he is fled; Or like a thief, which till death's doom be read, Wisheth himself delivered from prison, But damned and haled to execution, Wisheth that still he might be imprisoned. Yet grace, if thou repent, thou canst not lack; But who shall give thee that grace to begin? Oh make thy self with holy mourning black, And red with blushing, as thou art with sin; Or wash thee in Christ's blood, which hath this might That being red, it dyes red souls to white.

The Rape of the Lock

Oh say what stranger Cause, yet unexplor'd, Cou'd make a gentle Belle reject a Lord? In Tasks so bold, can Little Men engage, and in soft Bosoms dwells such Mighty Rage? (I.9-12)

The Flea

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 marriage 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.

Holy Sonnets

Oh, to vex me, contraries meet in one: Inconstancy unnaturally hath begot A constant habit; that when I would not I change in vows, and in devotion. As humorous is my contrition As my profane love, and as soon forgot: As riddlingly distempered, cold and hot, As praying, as mute; as infinite, as none. I durst not view heaven yesterday; and today In prayers and flattering speeches I court God: Tomorrow I quake with true fear of his rod. So my devout fits come and go away Like a fantastic ague; save that here Those are my best days, when I shake with fear.

"Lines Composed A Few Miles Above Tintern Abbey..."

Once again Do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs, That on a wild secluded scene impress Thoughts of more deep seclusion

THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER THE

One after one, by the star-dogged moon, Too quick for groan or sigh, Each turned his face with ghastly pang, And cursed me with his eye. (III.49)

AMORETTI

One day I wrote her name upon the strand, But came the waves and washed it away: Again I write it with a second hand, But came the tide, and made my pains his prey. Vain man, said she, that doest in vain assay, A mortal thing so to immortalize, For I myself shall like to this decay, And eek my name be wiped out likewise. Not so, (quod I) let baser things devise To die in dust, but you shall live by fame: My verse, your virtues rare shall eternize, And in the heavens write your glorious name. Where whenas death shall all the world subdue, Our love shall live, and later life renew.

The Rape of the Lock

Our humbler Province is to tend the Fair, Not a less pleasing, tho' less glorious Care. To save the Powder from too rude a Gale, Nor let th' imprison'd Essences exhale, To draw fresh Colours from the vernal Flow'rs, To steal from Rainbows ere they drop in Show'rs A brighter Wash; to curl their waving Hairs, Assist their Blushes, and inspire their Airs; Nay oft, in Dreams, Invention we bestow, To change a Flounce, or add a Furbelo. (II.91-100)

Absalom and Achitophel

Poor pitied youth, by my paternal care Rais'd up to all the heights his frame could bear! Had God ordain'd his fate for empire born He would have giv'n his soul another turn: Gull'd with a patriot's name, whose modern sense Is one that would by law supplant his prince; The people's brave, the politicians' tool; Never was patriot yet, but was a fool.

Joseph Andrews

Rage and lust pulled her heart, as with two strings, two different ways; one moment she thought of stabbing Joseph, the next, of taking him in her arms, and devouring him with kisses. (1.18.10)

"Split the Lark,"

SPLIT the Lark--and you'll find the Music-- Bulb after Bulb, in Silver rolled-- Scantily dealt to the Summer Morning Saved for your Ear when Lutes be old. Loose the Flood--you shall find it patent-- Gush after Gush, reserved for you-- Scarlet Experiment! Sceptic Thomas! Now, do you doubt that your Bird was true?

The Rape of the Lock

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? In Tasks so bold, can Little Men engage, and in soft Bosoms dwells such Mighty Rage? (I.7-12)

An Epistle to Arbuthnot

Shut, shut the door, good John! fatigu'd, I said, Tie up the knocker, say I'm sick, I'm dead. The dog-star rages! nay 'tis past a doubt, All Bedlam, or Parnassus, is let out: Fire in each eye, and papers in each hand, [5] They rave, recite, and madden round the land. What walls can guard me, or what shades can hide? They pierce my thickets, through my grot they glide; By land, by water, they renew the charge; They stop the chariot, and they board the barge. [10] No place is sacred, not the church is free; Ev'n Sunday shines no Sabbath-day to me: Then from the Mint walks forth the Man of Ryme, Happy! to catch me just at Dinner-time. Is there a Parson, much bemus'd in beer, [15] A maudlin Poetess, a ryming Peer, A clerk, foredoom'd his father's soul to cross, Who pens a stanza, when he should engross? Is there, who, lock'd from Ink and Paper, scrawls With desp'rate Charcoal round his darken'd walls? [20] All fly to Twit'nam, and in humble strain Apply to me, to keep them mad or vain. Arthur, whose giddy Son neglects the Laws, Imputes to me and my damn'd works the cause: Poor Cornus sees his frantic Wife elope, [25] And curses Wit, and Poetry, and Pope. Friend to my Life, (which did not you prolong, The World had wanted many an idle Song) What Drop or Nostrum can this Plague remove? Or which must end me, a fool's wrath or love? [30] A dire dilemma! either way I'm sped, If foes, they write, if friends, they read me dead. Seiz'd and tied down to judge, how wretched I! Who can't be silent, and who will not lie; To laugh, were want of goodness and of grace, [35] And to be grave, exceeds all pow'r of face. I sit with sad civility, I read With honest anguish, and an aching head; And drop at last, but in unwilling ears, This saving counsel, "Keep your piece nine years." [40] "Nine years!" cries he, who high in Drury-lane Lull'd by soft zephyrs through the broken pane, Rhymes ere he wakes, and prints before Term ends, Oblig'd by hunger, and request of friends: "The piece, you think, is incorrect: why, take it, [45] I'm all submission, what you'd have it, make it." Three things another's modest wishes bound, My friendship, and a prologue, and ten pound. Pitholeon sends to me: "You know his Grace, I want a patron; ask him for a place." [50] Pitholeon libell'd me — "but here's a letter Informs you, sir, 'twas when he knew no better. Dare you refuse him? Curl invites to dine, He'll write a Journal, or he'll turn Divine." Bless me! a Packet — "'Tis a stranger sues, [55] A virgin tragedy, an orphan muse." If I dislike it, "Furies, death and rage!" If I approve, "Commend it to the stage." There (thank my stars) my whole commission ends, The play'rs and I are, luckily, no friends. [60] Fir'd that the house reject him, "'Sdeath I'll print it, And shame the fools — your int'rest, sir, with Lintot." "Lintot, dull rogue! will think your price too much." "Not, sir, if you revise it, and retouch." All my demurs but double his attacks; [65] At last he whispers, "Do; and we go snacks." Glad of a quarrel, straight I clap the door, "Sir, let me see your works and you no more." 'Tis sung, when Midas' ears began to spring, (Midas, a sacred person and a king) [70] His very minister who spied them first, (Some say his queen) was forc'd to speak, or burst. And is not mine, my friend, a sorer case, When ev'ry coxcomb perks them in my face? "Good friend, forbear! you deal in dang'rous things. [75] I'd never name queens, ministers, or kings; Keep close to ears, and those let asses prick; 'Tis nothing" — Nothing? if they bite and kick? Out with it, Dunciad! let the secret pass, That secret to each fool, that he's an ass: [80] The truth once told (and wherefore should we lie?) The Queen of Midas slept, and so may I. You think this cruel? take it for a rule, No creature smarts so little as a fool. Let peals of laughter, Codrus! round thee break, [85] Thou unconcern'd canst hear the mighty crack: Pit, box, and gall'ry in convulsions hurl'd, Thou stand'st unshook amidst a bursting world. Who shames a scribbler? break one cobweb through, He spins the slight, self-pleasing thread anew; [90] Destroy his fib or sophistry, in vain, The creature's at his dirty work again; Thron'd in the centre of his thin designs; Proud of a vast extent of flimsy lines! Whom have I hurt? has poet yet, or peer, [95] Lost the arch'd eye-brow, or Parnassian sneer? And has not Colly still his Lord, and *****? His butchers Henley, his Free-masons Moor? Does not one table Bavius still admit? Still to one Bishop Philips seem a Wit? [100] Still Sapho — "Hold! for God-sake — you'll offend: No names! — be calm! — learn prudence of a friend! I too could write, and I am twice as tall; But foes like these!" One flatt'rer's worse than all. Of all mad creatures, if the learn'd are right, [105] It is the slaver kills, and not the bite. A fool quite angry is quite innocent; Alas! 'tis ten times worse when they repent. One dedicates in high heroic prose, And ridicules beyond a hundred foes; [110] One from all Grubstreet will my fame defend, And, more abusive, calls himself my friend. This prints my Letters, that expects a bribe, And others roar aloud, "Subscribe, subscribe." There are, who to my person pay their court: [115] I cough like Horace, and, though lean, am short, Ammon's great Son one shoulder had too high, Such Ovid's nose, and "Sir! you have an Eye—" Go on, obliging creatures, make me see All that disgrac'd my betters, met in me: [120] Say for my comfort, languishing in bed, "Just so immortal Maro held his head:" And when I die, be sure you let me know Great Homer died three thousand years ago. Why did I write? what sin to me unknown [125] Dipp'd me in ink, my parents', or my own? As yet a child, nor yet a fool to fame, I lisp'd in numbers, for the numbers came. I left no calling for this idle trade, No duty broke, no father disobey'd. [130] The Muse but serv'd to ease some friend, not wife, To help me through this long disease, my life, To second, Arbuthnot! thy art and care, And teach the being you preserv'd, to bear. But why then publish? Granville the polite, [135] And knowing Walsh, would tell me I could write; Well-natur'd Garth inflamed with early praise, And Congreve lov'd, and Swift endur'd my lays; The courtly Talbot, Somers, Sheffield read, Ev'n mitred Rochester would nod the head, [140] And St. John's self (great Dryden's friends before) With open arms receiv'd one Poet more. Happy my studies, when by these approv'd! Happier their author, when by these belov'd! From these the world will judge of men and books, [145] Not from the Burnets, Oldmixons, and Cooks. Soft were my numbers; who could take offence, While pure description held the place of sense? Like gentle Fanny's was my flow'ry theme, A painted mistress, or a purling stream. [150] Yet then did Gildon draw his venal quill; I wish'd the man a dinner, and sat still. Yet then did Dennis rave in furious fret; I never answer'd, I was not in debt. If want provok'd, or madness made them print, [155] I wag'd no war with Bedlam or the Mint. Did some more sober Critic come abroad? If wrong, I smil'd; if right, I kiss'd the rod. Pains, reading, study, are their just pretence, And all they want is spirit, taste, and sense. [160] Commas and points they set exactly right, And 'twere a sin to rob them of their mite. Yet ne'er one sprig of laurel grac'd these ribalds, From slashing Bentley down to pidling Tibbalds. Each Wight who reads not, and but scans and spells, [165] Each Word-catcher that lives on syllables, Ev'n such small Critics some regard may claim, Preserv'd in Milton's or in Shakespear's name. Pretty! in Amber to observe the forms Of hairs, or straws, or dirt, or grubs, or worms; [170] The things, we know, are neither rich nor rare, But wonder how the Devil they got there? Were others angry? I excus'd them too; Well might they rage; I gave them but their due. A man's true merit 'tis not hard to find, [175] But each man's secret standard in his mind, That Casting-weight Pride adds to Emptiness, This, who can gratify? for who can guess? The Bard whom pilfer'd Pastorals renown, Who turns a Persian Tale for half a crown, [180] Just writes to make his barrenness appear, And strains, from hard-bound brains, eight lines a year: He, who still wanting, though he lives on theft, Steals much, spends little, yet has nothing left: And he, who now to sense, now nonsense leaning, [185] Means not, but blunders round about a meaning: And he, whose fustian's so sublimely bad, It is not poetry, but prose run mad: All these, my modest Satire bad translate, And own'd, that nine such poets made a Tate. [190] How did they fume, and stamp, and roar, and chafe? And swear, not Addison himself was safe. Peace to all such! but were there one whose fires True Genius kindles, and fair fame inspires, Blest with each talent and each art to please, [195] And born to write, converse, and live with ease: Should such a man, too fond to rule alone, Bear, like the Turk, no brother near the throne, View him with scornful, yet with jealous eyes, And hate for arts that caus'd himself to rise; [200] Damn with faint praise, assent with civil leer, And without sneering, teach the rest to sneer; Willing to wound, and yet afraid to strike, Just hint a fault, and hesitate dislike; Alike reserv'd to blame, or to commend, [205] A tim'rous foe, and a suspicious friend; Dreading ev'n fools, by flatterers besieg'd, And so obliging, that he ne'er oblig'd; Like Cato, give his little Senate laws, And sit attentive to his own applause; [210] While Wits and Templers ev'ry sentence raise, And wonder with a foolish face of praise. Who but must laugh, if such a man there be? Who would not weep, if Atticus were he? What though my Name stood rubric on the walls, [215] Or plaister'd posts, with Claps in capitals? Or smoking forth, a hundred Hawkers load, On Wings of Winds came flying all abroad? I sought no homage from the Race that write; I kept, like Asian Monarchs, from their sight: [220] Poems I heeded (now be-rym'd so long) No more than Thou, great George! a Birth-day Song. I ne'er with Wits or Witlings pass'd my days, To spread about the Itch of Verse and Praise; Nor like a Puppy daggled thro' the Town, [225] To fetch and carry Sing-song up and down; Nor at Rehearsals sweat, and mouth'd, and cried, With Handkerchief and Orange at my side; But sick of fops, and poetry, and prate, To Bufo left the whole Castalian state. [230] Proud as Apollo on his forked hill, Sat full-blown Bufo, puff'd by every quill; Fed with soft dedication all day long, Horace and he went hand in hand in song. His Library, (where Busts of Poets dead [235] And a true Pindar stood without a head,) Receiv'd of Wits an undistinguish'd race, Who first his Judgment ask'd, and then a Place: Much they extoll'd his pictures, much his seat, And flatter'd ev'ry day, and some days eat: [240] Till grown more frugal in his riper days, He paid some Bards with Port, and some with Praise, To some a dry Rehearsal was assign'd, And others (harder still) he paid in kind. Dryden alone (what wonder?) came not nigh, [245] Dryden alone escap'd this judging eye: But still the great have kindness in reserve, He help'd to bury whom he help'd to starve. May some choice patron bless each grey goose quill! May ev'ry Bavius have his Bufo still! [250] So, when a statesman wants a day's defence, Or envy holds a whole week's war with sense, Or simple pride for flatt'ry makes demands, May dunce by dunce be whistled off my hands! Blest be the Great! for those they take away, [255] And those they left me — for they left me Gay, Left me to see neglected Genius bloom, Neglected die! and tell it on his tomb; Of all thy blameless life the sole return My verse, and Queensb'ry weeping o'er thy Urn! [260] Oh let me live my own! and die so too! ("To live and die is all I have to do:") Maintain a Poet's Dignity and Ease, And see what friends, and read what books I please. Above a patron, though I condescend [265] Sometimes to call a Minister my Friend: I was not born for Courts or great Affairs; I pay my Debts, believe, and say my Pray'rs; Can sleep without a poem in my head, Nor know, if Dennis be alive or dead. [270] Why am I ask'd what next shall see the light? Heav'ns! was I born for nothing but to write? Has life no joys for me? or (to be grave) Have I no friend to serve, no soul to save? "I found him close with Swift" — "Indeed? no doubt," [275] (Cries prating Balbus) "something will come out." 'Tis all in vain, deny it as I will. "No, such a genius never can lie still," And then for mine obligingly mistakes The first lampoon Sir Will. or Bubo makes. [280] Poor guiltless I! and can I choose but smile, When ev'ry coxcomb knows me by my Style? Curst be the Verse, how well soe'er it flow, That tends to make one worthy Man my foe, Give Virtue scandal, Innocence a fear, [285] Or from the soft-ey'd Virgin steal a tear! But he, who hurts a harmless neighbour's peace, Insults fall'n Worth, or Beauty in distress, Who loves a Lye, lame slander helps about, Who writes a Libel, or who copies out: [290] That Fop whose pride affects a Patron's name, Yet absent, wounds an Author's honest fame; Who can your merit selfishly approve, And show the sense of it without the love; Who has the vanity to call you friend, [295] Yet wants the honour, injur'd, to defend; Who tells what'er you think, whate'er you say, And, if he lie not, must at least betray: Who to the Dean and silver Bell can swear, And sees at Cannons what was never there; [300] Who reads, but with a lust to misapply, Make Satire a Lampoon, and Fiction, Lye. A lash like mine no honest man shall dread, But all such babbling blockheads in his stead. Let Sporus tremble — "What? that thing of silk, [305] Sporus, that mere white curd of ass's milk? Satire or sense, alas! can Sporus feel? Who breaks a Butterfly upon a Wheel?" Yet let me flap this Bug with gilded wings, This painted Child of Dirt that stinks and stings; [310] Whose Buzz the Witty and the Fair annoys, Yet Wit ne'er tastes, and Beauty ne'er enjoys, So well-bred Spaniels civilly delight In mumbling of the Game they dare not bite. Eternal Smiles his Emptiness betray, [315] As shallow streams run dimpling all the way. Whether in florid Impotence he speaks, And, as the Prompter breathes, the Puppet squeaks; Or at the Ear of Eve, familiar Toad, Half Froth, half Venom, spits himself abroad, [320] In Puns, or Politicks, or Tales, or Lyes, Or Spite, or Smut, or Rymes, or Blasphemies. His Wit all see-saw between that and this, Now high, now low, now Master up, now Miss, And he himself one vile Antithesis. [325] Amphibious Thing! that acting either Part, The trifling Head, or the corrupted Heart! Fop at the Toilet, Flatt'rer at the Board, Now trips a Lady, and now struts a Lord. Eve's Tempter thus the Rabbins have exprest, [330] A Cherub's face, a Reptile all the rest; Beauty that shocks you, Parts that none will trust, Wit that can creep, and Pride that licks the dust. Not Fortune's Worshipper, nor Fashion's Fool, Not Lucre's Madman, nor Ambition's Tool, [335] Not proud, nor servile, be one Poet's praise, That, if he pleas'd, he pleas'd by manly ways; That Flatt'ry, even to Kings, he held a shame, And thought a Lye in Verse or Prose the same: That not in Fancy's Maze he wander'd long, [340] But stoop'd to Truth, and moraliz'd his song: That not for Fame, but Virtue's better end, He stood the furious Foe, the timid Friend, The damning Critic, half-approving Wit, The Coxcomb hit, or fearing to be hit; [345] Laugh'd at the loss of Friends he never had, The dull, the proud, the wicked, and the mad; The distant Threats of Vengeance on his head, The Blow unfelt, the Tear he never shed; The Tale reviv'd, the Lye so oft o'erthrown; [350] Th' imputed Trash, and Dulness not his own; The Morals blacken'd when the Writings 'scape; The libell'd Person, and the pictur'd Shape; Abuse on all he lov'd, or lov'd him, spread, A Friend in Exile, or a Father, dead; [355] The Whisper that to Greatness still too near, Perhaps, yet vibrates on his Sovereign's ear:— Welcome for thee, fair Virtue! all the past: For thee, fair Virtue! welcome ev'n the last! "But why insult the Poor, affront the Great?" [360] A Knave's a Knave, to me, in ev'ry State: Alike my scorn, if he succeed or fail, Sporus at court, or Japhet in a Jayl, A hireling Scribler, or a hireling Peer, Knight of the Post corrupt, or of the Shire; [365] If on a Pillory, or near a Throne, He gain his Prince's Ear, or lose his own. Yet soft by Nature, more a Dupe than Wit, Sapho can tell you how this Man was bit: This dreaded Sat'rist Dennis will confess [370] Foe to his Pride, but Friend to his Distress: So humble, he has knock'd at Tibbald's door, Has drunk with Cibber, nay has rym'd for Moor. Full ten years slander'd, did he once reply? Three thousand Suns went down on Welsted's Lye: [375] To please a Mistress, One aspers'd his life; He lash'd him not, but let her be his Wife: Let Budgel charge low Grubstreet on his quill, And write whate'er he pleas'd, except his Will; Let the Two Curls of Town and Court, abuse [380] His Father, Mother, Body, Soul, and Muse. Yet why? that Father held it for a rule, It was a Sin to call our Neighbour Fool, That harmless Mother thought no Wife a *****, — Hear this! and spare his Family, James More! [385] Unspotted Names! and memorable long, If there be Force in Virtue, or in Song. Of gentle Blood (part shed in Honour's Cause, While yet in Britain Honour had Applause) Each Parent sprung — "What Fortune, pray?" — Their own, [390] And better got, than Bestia's from the Throne. Born to no Pride, inheriting no Strife, Nor marrying Discord in a Noble Wife, Stranger to Civil and Religious Rage, The good Man walk'd innoxious thro' his age. [395] No Courts he saw, no Suits would ever try, Nor dar'd an Oath, nor hazarded a Lye: Un-learn'd, he knew no Schoolman's subtle Art, No Language, but the Language of the Heart. By Nature honest, by Experience wise, [400] Healthy by Temp'rance and by Exercise: His Life, tho' long, to sickness past unknown; His Death was instant, and without a groan. O grant me, thus to live, and thus to die! Who sprung from Kings shall know less joy than I. [405] O Friend! may each Domestick Bliss be thine! Be no unpleasing Melancholy mine: Me, let the tender Office long engage To rock the Cradle of reposing Age, With lenient Arts extend a Mother's breath, [410] Make Languor smile, and smooth the Bed of Death, Explore the Thought, explain the asking Eye, And keep a while one Parent from the Sky! On Cares like these if Length of days attend, May Heav'n, to bless those days, preserve my Friend, [415] Preserve him social, cheerful, and serene, And just as rich as when he serv'd a Queen! Whether that Blessing be denied or giv'n, Thus far was right, the rest belongs to Heav'n.

Shakespeare Sonnet 18

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate: Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, And summer's lease hath all too short a date: Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines, And often is his gold complexion dimm'd; And every fair from fair sometime declines, By chance, or nature's changing course, untrimm'd; But thy eternal summer shall not fade Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow'st; Nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade, When in eternal lines to time thou grow'st; So long as men can breathe or eyes can see, So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

Ode to a Grecian Urn

She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss, For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair! (lines 19-20)

"My Last Duchess"

She thanked men, - good! but thanked Somehow - I know not how - as if she ranked My gift of a nine-hundred-years-old name With anybody's gift. (31-34)

"The Sun Rising,"

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.

Sir Gawain and the Green Knight

Sir, if you be Gawain, it seems a great wonder— A man so well-meaning, and mannerly disposed, And cannot act in company as courtesy bids, And if one takes the trouble to teach him, 'tis all in vain. That lesson learned lately is lightly forgot, Though I painted it as plain as my poor wit allowed." "What lesson, dear lady?" he asked all alarmed; "I have been much to blame, if your story be true." "Yet my counsel was of kissing," came her answer then, "Where favor has been found, freely to claim As accords with the conduct of courteous knights." (1481-1491)

LYCIDAS

So may some gentle muse With lucky words favour my destined urn, And as he passes turn And bid fair peace be to my sable shroud (19-22)

"The World Is Too Much with Us"

So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;

Frankenstein

So much has been done, exclaimed the soul of Frankenstein—more, far more, will I achieve; treading in the steps already marked, I will pioneer a new way, explore unknown powers, and unfold to the world the deepest mysteries of creation.

Paradise Lost

So much the rather thou Celestial Light Shine inward, and the mind through all powers Irradiate, there plant eyes, all mist from thence Purge and disperse, that I may see and tell Of things invisible to mortal sight.

WaldenHenry David Thoreau

So that all the pecuniary outgoes, excepting for washing and mending, which for the most part were done out of the house, and their bills have not yet been received . . . were House, $28 12 1/2 Farm one year, 14 72 1/2 Food eight months, 8 74 Clothing &c., eight months, 8 40 3/4 Oil, &c., eight months, 2 00 In all, $61 99 3/4

Beowulf

So. The Spear-Danes in days gone by and the kings who ruled them had courage and greatness. . . . There was Shield Sheafson, scourge of many tribes, a wrecker of mead-benches, rampaging among foes. . . . A foundling to start with, he would flourish later on . . . In the end each clan on the outlying coasts beyond the whale-road had to yield to him and begin to pay tribute. That was one good king.

Hamlet

Something is rotten in the state of Denmark.

Dover Beach

Sophocles long ago Heard it on the Ægean, and it brought Into his mind the turbid ebb and flow Of human misery; we (15-18)

Astrophil and Stella

Stella oft sees the very face of woe Painted in my beclouded stormy face, But cannot skill to pity my disgrace, Not though thereof the cause herself she know; Yet hearing late a fable, which did show Of lovers never known a grievous case, Pity thereof gat in her breast such place That, from that sea derived, tears' spring did flow. Alas, if fancy drawn by imaged things, Though false, yet with free scope more grace doth breed Than servant's wrack, where new doubts honor brings; Then think, my dear, that you in me do read Of lover's ruin some sad tragedy. I am not I; pity the tale of me.

Solitary Reaper

Stop here, or gently pass! (4)

"A Nocturnal upon Saint Lucy's Day,"

Study me then, you who shall lovers be At the next world, that is, at the next spring; For I am every dead thing, In whom Love wrought new alchemy. For his art did express A quintessence even from nothingness, From dull privations, and lean emptiness; He ruin'd me, and I am re-begot Of absence, darkness, death: things which are not.

Joseph Andrews

Sure nothing can be a more simple contract in a woman, than to place her affections on a boy. (1.6.7)

Ode to a Grecian Urn

Sylvan historian, who canst thus express A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme: (lines 3-4)

"The World Is Too Much with Us"

The World is too much with us, late and soon, Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers

Ode to a Grecian Urn

Thou foster-child of Silence and slow Time, (line 2)

"The World Is Too Much with Us"

We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!

LYCIDAS

Where were ye nymphs when the remorseless deep Closed o'er the head of your loved Lycidas? (50-51)

The Ecstasy

Where, like a pillow on a bed A pregnant bank swell'd up to rest The violet's reclining head, Sat we two, one another's best. Our hands were firmly cemented With a fast balm, which thence did spring; Our eye-beams twisted, and did thread Our eyes upon one double string; So to'intergraft our hands, as yet Was all the means to make us one, And pictures in our eyes to get Was all our propagation. As 'twixt two equal armies fate Suspends uncertain victory, Our souls (which to advance their state Were gone out) hung 'twixt her and me. And whilst our souls negotiate there, We like sepulchral statues lay; All day, the same our postures were, And we said nothing, all the day. If any, so by love refin'd That he soul's language understood, And by good love were grown all mind, Within convenient distance stood, He (though he knew not which soul spake, Because both meant, both spake the same) Might thence a new concoction take And part far purer than he came. This ecstasy doth unperplex, We said, and tell us what we love; We see by this it was not sex, We see we saw not what did move; But as all several souls contain Mixture of things, they know not what, Love these mix'd souls doth mix again And makes both one, each this and that. A single violet transplant, The strength, the colour, and the size, (All which before was poor and scant) Redoubles still, and multiplies. When love with one another so Interinanimates two souls, That abler soul, which thence doth flow, Defects of loneliness controls. We then, who are this new soul, know Of what we are compos'd and made, For th' atomies of which we grow Are souls, whom no change can invade. But oh alas, so long, so far, Our bodies why do we forbear? They'are ours, though they'are not we; we are The intelligences, they the spheres. We owe them thanks, because they thus Did us, to us, at first convey, Yielded their senses' force to us, Nor are dross to us, but allay. On man heaven's influence works not so, But that it first imprints the air; So soul into the soul may flow, Though it to body first repair. As our blood labors to beget Spirits, as like souls as it can, Because such fingers need to knit That subtle knot which makes us man, So must pure lovers' souls descend T' affections, and to faculties, Which sense may reach and apprehend, Else a great prince in prison lies. To'our bodies turn we then, that so Weak men on love reveal'd may look; Love's mysteries in souls do grow, But yet the body is his book. And if some lover, such as we, Have heard this dialogue of one, Let him still mark us, he shall see Small change, when we'are to bodies gone.

Joseph Andrews

and indeed, reader, if thou art of an amorous hue, I advise thee to skip over the next paragraph [...]. (2.12.2

The Rape of the Lock

e're Phoebus rose, he had implor'd Propitious Heav'n, and ev'ry Pow'r ador'd, But chiefly Love — to Love an Altar built, Of twelve vast French Romances, neatly gilt. There lay three Garters, half a Pair of Gloves; And all the Trophies of his former Loves. With tender Billet-doux he lights the Pyre, And breathes three am'rous Sighs to raise the Fire. Then prostrate falls, and begs with ardent Eyes Soon to obtain, and long possess the Prize: (II.35-44)

The Second Shepherds' Play

famous medieval mystery play which is contained in the manuscript HM1, the unique manuscript of the Wakefield Cycle. These plays are also referred to as the Towneley Plays, on account of the manuscript residing at Towneley Hall. The plays within the manuscript roughly follow the chronology of the Bible and so were believed to be a cycle, which is now considered not to be the case.In both plays it becomes clear that Christ is coming to Earth to redeem the world from its sins. Although the underlying tone of The Second Shepherd's Play is serious, many of the antics that occur among the shepherds are extremely farcical in nature. - Coll, the first shepherd ("primus pastor") - Gib -Daw, a third, young, lazy and mischievous, shepherd - Mak, a local good-for-nothing and well-known thief -

Caedmon`s Hymn

for men earth, Master almighty (9).

Joseph Andrews

for she had rather stay in that place in all eternity, than ride with a naked man. (1.12.5)

The Scarlet Letter

"A writer of story-books! What kind of a business in life,—what mode of glorifying God, or being serviceable to mankind in his day and generation,—may that be? Why, the degenerate fellow might as well have been a fiddler!" Such are the compliments bandied between my great-grandsires and myself, across the gulf of time! And yet, let them scorn me as they will, strong traits of their nature have intertwined themselves with mine.

The Scarlet Letter

"Mother," said [Pearl], "was that the same minister that kissed me by the brook?" "Hold thy peace, dear little Pearl!" whispered her mother. "We must not always talk in the market-place of what happens to us in the forest."

The Scarlet Letter

"Mother," said little Pearl, "the sunshine does not love you. It runs away and hides itself, because it is afraid of something on your bosom. . . . It will not flee from me, for I wear nothing on my bosom yet!" "Nor ever will, my child, I hope," said Hester. "And why not, mother?" asked Pearl, stopping short. . . . "Will it not come of its own accord, when I am a woman grown?"

"Out of the Cradle Endlessly Rocking

"Out of the cradle endlessly rocking, Out of the mocking-bird's throat, the musical shuttle, Out of the Ninth-month midnight, Over the sterile sands, and the fields beyond, where the child, leaving his bed, wander'd alone, bare-headed, barefoot, Down from the shower'd halo, Up from the mystic play of shadows, twining and twisting as if they were alive, Out from the patches of briers and blackberries, From the memories of the bird that chanted to me,

"Out of the Cradle Endlessly Rocking

"Out of the cradle endlessly rocking, Out of the mocking-bird's throat, the musical shuttle, Out of the Ninth-month midnight, Over the sterile sands, and the fields beyond, where the child, leaving his bed, wander'd alone, bare-headed, barefoot, Down from the shower'd halo, Up from the mystic play of shadows, twining and twisting as if they were alive, Out from the patches of briers and blackberries, From the memories of the bird that chanted to me, From your memories, sad brother—from the fitful risings and fallings I heard, From under that yellow half-moon, late-risen, and swollen as if with tears, From those beginning notes of sickness and love, there in the transparent mist, From the thousand responses of my heart, never to cease, From the myriad thence-arous'd words, From the word stronger and more delicious than any, From such, as now they start, the scene revisiting, As a flock, twittering, rising, or overhead passing, Borne hither—ere all eludes me, hurriedly, A man—yet by these tears a little boy again, Throwing myself on the sand, confronting the waves, I, chanter of pains and joys, uniter of here and hereafter, Taking all hints to use them—but swiftly leaping beyond them, A reminiscence sing. "

Jane Eyre

"Shall I?" I said briefly; and I looked at his features, beautiful in their harmony, but strangely formidable in their still severity; at his brow, commanding, but not open; at his eyes, bright and deep and searching, but never soft; at his tall imposing figure; and fancied myself in idea his wife. Oh! it would never do! As his curate, his comrade, all would be right: I would cross oceans with him in that capacity; toil under Eastern suns, in Asian deserts with him in that office; admire and emulate his courage and devotion and vigour: accommodate quietly to his masterhood; smile undisturbed at his ineradicable ambition. . . . I should suffer often, no doubt, attached to him only in this capacity: my body would be under a rather stringent yoke, but my heart and mind would be free. I should still have my unblighted self to turn to: my natural unenslaved feelings with which to communicate in moments of loneliness. There would be recesses in my mind which would be only mine, to which he never came; and sentiments growing there, fresh and sheltered, which his austerity could never blight, nor his measured warrior-march trample down: but as his wife—at his side always, and always restrained, and always checked—forced to keep the fire of my nature continually low, to compel it to burn inwardly and never utter a cry, though the imprisoned flame consumed vital after vital—this would be unendurable.

Culture and Anarchy

"Sweetness And Light"

Pride and Prejudice

"Which do you mean?" and turning round, he looked for a moment at Elizabeth, till catching her eye, he withdrew his own and coldly said, "She is tolerable; but not handsome enough to tempt me; and I am in no humour at present to give consequence to young ladies who are slighted by other men. You had better return to your partner and enjoy her smiles, for you are wasting your time with me."

Henry V

'Tis not the balm, the sceptre, and the ball, The sword, the mace, the crown imperial, The intertissued robe of gold and pearl, The farcèd title running fore the king, The throne he sits on, nor the tide of pomp That beats upon the high shore of this world— No, not all these, thrice-gorgeous ceremony, Not all these, laid in bed majestical, Can sleep so soundly as the wretched slave Who with a body filled and vacant mind Gets him to rest, crammed with distressful bread; . . . And but for ceremony such a wretch, Winding up days with toil and nights with sleep, Had the forehand and vantage of a king. The slave, a member of the country's peace, Enjoys it, but in gross brain little wots What watch the King keeps to maintain the peace, Whose hours the peasant best advantages. (IV.i.242-266)

"A Nocturnal upon Saint Lucy's Day,"

'Tis the year's midnight, and it is the day's, Lucy's, who scarce seven hours herself unmasks; The sun is spent, and now his flasks Send forth light squibs, no constant rays; The world's whole sap is sunk; The general balm th' hydroptic earth hath drunk, Whither, as to the bed's feet, life is shrunk, Dead and interr'd; yet all these seem to laugh, Compar'd with me, who am their epitaph.

"My Last Duchess"

(since none puts by The curtain I have drawn for you, but I) (9-10)

The Dream of the Rood

- has been heralded by scholars as the finest expression of the Crucifixion theme in Old English poetry. Though it focuses on a motif common in Old English poetry, The Dream of the Rood is unique in describing it from the viewpoint of the Cross and within the context of a dream vision. The poem thus becomes a philosophical one -divided into three parts: the Dreamer's initial reaction to his vision of the Cross, the monologue of the Rood describing the Crucifixion, and the Dreamer's conversion and resolution to seek the salvation of the Cross. SUMMARY: The poem opens with the vision of the Dreamer, which establishes the framework for the rest of the poem. He sees the Cross being raised up, covered in gold and jewels, yet he notices a stain of blood on its side. The Rood begins to speak and recounts its experience as an instrument in the Crucifixion of Christ. The Cross recalls how it was cut down in the forest and taken by its enemies to support criminals, then details its emotions as it realizes it is to be the tree on which Christ will be crucified. The Rood and Christ become one in the portrayal of the Passion—they are both pierced with nails, mocked and tortured, and finally killed and buried; soon after, like Christ, the Cross is resurrected, then adorned with gold and silver. The Cross announces that because of its suffering and obedience, it will be honored above all other trees; it then commands the Dreamer to tell others what he has seen and heard. In the end, the Dreamer's hope of a heavenly home is renewed and he vows to seek again the glorious Rood.

Paradise Lost

. though both Not equal, as thir sex not equal seem'd; For contemplation hee and valor form'd, For softness shee and sweet attractive Grace, Hee for God only, shee for God in him: His fair large Front and Eye sublime declar'd Absolute rule; and Hyacinthine Locks Round from his parted forelock manly hung Clust'ring, but not beneath his shoulders broad: Shee as a veil down to the slender waist Her unadorned golden tresses wore Dishevell'd, but in wanton ringlets wav'd As the Vine curls her tendrils, which impli'd Subjection, but requir'd with gentle sway, And by her yielded, by him best receiv'd, Yielded with coy submission, modest pride, And sweet reluctant amorous delay.

Astrophil and Stella

1 Loving in truth, and fain in verse my love to show, That she (dear She) might take some pleasure of my pain: Pleasure might cause her read, reading might make her know, Knowledge might pity win, and pity grace obtain, I sought fit words to paint the blackest face of woe, Studying inventions fine, her wits to entertain: Oft turning others' leaves, to see if thence would flow Some fresh and fruitful showers upon my sun-burned brain. But words came halting forth, wanting Invention's stay, Invention, Nature's child, fled step-dame Study's blows, And others' feet still seemed but strangers in my way. Thus great with child to speak, and helpless in my throes, Biting my truant pen, beating myself for spite, 'Fool' said my Muse to me, 'look in thy heart and write.'

Narrative of the Life of Frederick Douglass

1. Never having enjoyed, to any considerable extent, her soothing presence, her tender and watchful care, I received the tidings of [my mother's] death with much the same emotions I should have probably felt at the death of a stranger.

WaldenHenry David Thoreau

A field of water betrays the spirit that is in the air. It is continually receiving new life and motion from above. It is intermediate between land and sky.

Absalom and Achitophel

A man so various, that he seem'd to be Not one, but all Mankinds Epitome. Stiff in Opinions, always in the wrong; Was everything by starts, and nothing long: But in the course of one revolving Moon, Was Chymist, Fidler, States-Man, and Buffoon. Then all for Women, Painting, Rhiming, Drinking; Besides ten thousand freaks that dy'd in thinking.

A Defence of Poetry

A man, to be greatly good, must imagine intensely and comprehensively; he must put himself in the place of another and of many others. The pains and pleasures of his species must become his own. The great instrument of moral good is the imagination; and poetry administers to the effect by acting upon the cause. Poetry enlarges the circumference of the imagination by replenishing it with thoughts of ever new delight, which have the power of attracting and assimilating to their own nature all other thoughts, and which form new intervals and interstices whose void forever craves fresh food. Poetry strengthens the faculty which is the organ of the moral nature of man, in the same manner as exercise strengthens a limb.

Solitary Reaper

A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard In spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird, Breaking the silence of the seas Among the farthest Hebrides. (13-16)

Doctor Faustus

Ah Faustus, Now hast thou but one bare hour to live, And then thou must be damned perpetually. . . . The stars move still, time runs, the clock will strike, The devil will come, and Faustus must be damned. O I'll leap up to my God! Who pulls me down? See, see where Christ's blood streams in the firmament! One drop would save my soul, half a drop: ah my Christ— Ah, rend not my heart for naming of my Christ; Yet will I call on him—O spare me, Lucifer! . . . Earth, gape! O no, it will not harbor me. You stars that reigned at my nativity, Whose influence hath allotted death and hell, Now draw up Faustus like a foggy mist Into the entrails of yon laboring cloud, That when you vomit forth into the air My limbs may issue from your smoky mouths, So that my soul may but ascend to heaven. . . . O God, if thou wilt not have mercy on my soul, . . . Let Faustus live in hell a thousand years, A hundred thousand, and at last be saved. . . . Cursed be the parents that engendered me: No, Faustus, curse thy self, curse Lucifer, That hath deprived thee of the joys of heaven. . . . My God, my God, look not so fierce on me! . . . Ugly hell gape not! Come not, Lucifer! I'll burn my books—ah, Mephastophilis! (13.57-113)

THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER THE

Ah! wel-a-day! what evil looks Had I from old and young! Instead of the cross, the albatross About my neck was hung. (II.34)

The Canonization

Alas, alas, who's injured by my love? What merchant's ships have my sighs drowned? Who says my tears have overflowed his ground? When did my colds a forward spring remove? When did the heats which my veins fill Add one more to the plaguy bill? Soldiers find wars, and lawyers find out still Litigious men, which quarrels move, Though she and I do love.

"A Nocturnal upon Saint Lucy's Day,"

All others, from all things, draw all that's good, Life, soul, form, spirit, whence they being have; I, by Love's limbec, am the grave Of all that's nothing. Oft a flood Have we two wept, and so Drown'd the whole world, us two; oft did we grow To be two chaoses, when we did show Care to aught else; and often absences Withdrew our souls, and made us carcasses.

Moby-Dick

All that most maddens and torments; all that stirs up the lees of things; all truth with malice in it; all that cracks the sinews and cakes the brain; all the subtle demonisms of life and thought; all evil, to crazy Ahab, were visibly personified, and made practically assailable in Moby Dick. He piled upon the whale's white hump the sum of all the general rage and hate felt by his whole race from Adam down; and then, as if his chest had been a mortar, he burst his hot heart's shell upon it.

Solitary Reaper

Alone she cuts and binds the grain, And sings a melancholy strain; (5-6)

THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER THE

And I had done an hellish thing, And it would work 'em woe: For all averred, I had killed the bird That made the breeze to blow. Ah wretch! said they, the bird to slay, That made the breeze to blow! Nor dim nor red, like an angel's head, The glorious sun uprist: Then all averred, I had killed the bird That brought the fog and mist. 'Twas right, said they, such birds to slay, That bring the fog and mist. (II.23-24)

THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER THE

And a good south wind sprung up behind; The albatross did follow, And every day, for food or play, Came to the mariners' hollo! In mist or cloud, on mast or shroud, It perched for vespers nine; Whiles all the night, through fog-smoke white, Glimmered the white moon-shine." "God save thee, ancient mariner! From the fiends, that plague thee thus! - Why lookst thou so?" "With my crossbow I shot the albatross. (I.18-20)

Beowulf

And a young prince must be prudent like that, giving freely while his father lives so that afterwards in age when fighting starts steadfast companions will stand by him and hold the line. Behaviour that's admired is the path to power among people everywhere.

THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER THE

And every tongue, through utter drought, Was withered at the root; We could not speak, no more than if We had been choked with soot. (II.33)

"The Good Morrow,"

And now good-morrow to our waking souls, Which watch not one another out of fear; For love, all love of other sights controls, And makes one little room an everywhere. Let sea-discoverers to new worlds have gone, Let maps to other, worlds on worlds have shown, Let us possess one world, each hath one, and is one.

THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER THE

And some in dreams assured were Of the spirit that plagued us so; Nine fathom deep he had followed us From the land of mist and snow. (II.31-32)

THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER THE

And through the drifts the snowy clifts Did send a dismal sheen: Nor shapes of men nor beasts we ken - The ice was all between. (I.14)

The Canonization

And thus invoke us: "You, whom reverend love Made one another's hermitage; You, to whom love was peace, that now is rage; Who did the whole world's soul contract, and drove Into the glasses of your eyes (So made such mirrors, and such spies, That they did all to you epitomize) Countries, towns, courts: beg from above A pattern of your love!"

Ode to a Grecian Urn

And, happy melodist, unwearièd, For ever piping songs for ever new; (lines 23-24)

Holy Sonnets

As due by many titles I resign My self to Thee, O God; first I was made By Thee, and for Thee, and when I was decayed Thy blood bought that, the which before was Thine; I am Thy son, made with Thy Self to shine, Thy servant, whose pains Thou hast still repaid, Thy sheep, thine image, and, till I betrayed My self, a temple of Thy Spirit divine; Why doth the devil then usurp on me? Why doth he steal, nay ravish that's thy right? Except thou rise and for thine own work fight, Oh I shall soon despair, when I do see That thou lov'st mankind well, yet wilt not choose me, And Satan hates me, yet is loth to lose me.

King Lear

As flies to wanton boys are we to the gods; They kill us for their sport.

Joseph Andrews

At ten years old (by which time his education was advanced to writing and reading), he was bound an apprentice, according to statute, to Sir Thomas Booby, an uncle of Mr. Booby's by the father's side. (1.2.4)

Joseph Andrews

Betty told her mistress, she believed the man in bed was a greater man than they took him for. (1.15.1)

Joseph Andrews

Betty, who was just retired from her charitable office, answered, she believed he was a gentleman; for she never saw a finer skin in her life. (1.14.2)v

LYCIDAS

Bitter constraint, and sad occasion dear, Compels me to disturb your season due (6-7)

"The Sun Rising,"

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.

The Scarlet Letter

But Hester Prynne, with a mind of native courage and activity, and for so long a period not merely estranged, but outlawed, from society, had habituated herself to such latitude of speculation as was altogether foreign to the clergyman. She had wandered, without rule or guidance, in a moral wilderness. . . . The scarlet letter was her passport into regions where other women dared not tread. Shame, Despair, Solitude! These had been her teachers,—stern and wild ones,—and they had made her strong, but taught her much amiss.

"A Nocturnal upon Saint Lucy's Day,"

But I am by her death (which word wrongs her) Of the first nothing the elixir grown; Were I a man, that I were one I needs must know; I should prefer, If I were any beast, Some ends, some means; yea plants, yea stones detest, And love; all, all some properties invest; If I an ordinary nothing were, As shadow, a light and body must be here.

"A Nocturnal upon Saint Lucy's Day,"

But I am none; nor will my sun renew. You lovers, for whose sake the lesser sun At this time to the Goat is run To fetch new lust, and give it you, Enjoy your summer all; Since she enjoys her long night's festival, Let me prepare towards her, and let me call This hour her vigil, and her eve, since this Both the year's, and the day's deep midnight is.

The Rape of the Lock

But chiefly Love — to Love an Altar built, Of twelve vast French Romances, neatly gilt. There lay three Garters, half a Pair of Gloves; And all the Trophies of his former Loves. (II.37-40)

Sir Gawain and the Green Knight

But if a dullard should dote, deem it no wonder, And through the wiles of a woman be wooed into sorrow, For so was Adam by one, when the world began, And Solomon by many more, and Samson the mighty— Delilah was his doom, and David thereafter Was beguiled by Bathsheba, and bore much distress; . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . For these were proud princes, most prosperous of old, Past all lovers lucky, that languished under heaven, bemused. And one and all fell prey To women they had used; If I be led astry, Methinks I may be excused.

The Scarlet Letter

But there was a more real life for Hester Prynne here, in New England, than in that unknown region where Pearl had found a home. Here had been her sin; here, her sorrow; and here was yet to be her penitence. She had returned, therefore, and resumed,—of her own free will, for not the sternest magistrate of that iron period would have imposed it,—resumed the symbol of which we have related so dark a tale. Never afterwards did it quit her bosom. But . . . the scarlet letter ceased to be a stigma which attracted the world's scorn and bitterness, and became a type of something to be sorrowed over, and looked upon with awe, and yet with reverence, too.

The Canonization

Call us what you will, we are made such by love; Call her one, me another fly, We're tapers too, and at our own cost die, And we in us find the eagle and the dove. The phœnix riddle hath more wit By us; we two being one, are it. So, to one neutral thing both sexes fit. We die and rise the same, and prove Mysterious by this love.

Moby-Dick

Come, Ahab's compliments to ye; come and see if ye can swerve me. Swerve me? ye cannot swerve me, else ye swerve yourselves! man has ye there. Swerve me? The path to my fixed purpose is laid with iron rails, whereon my soul is grooved to run. Over unsounded gorges, through the rifled hearts of mountains, under torrents' beds, unerringly I rush! Naught's an obstacle, naught's an angle to the iron way!

The Flea

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.

Holy Sonnets

Death be not proud, though some have called thee Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so, For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow, Die not, poor death, nor yet canst thou kill me. From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be, Much pleasure, then from thee, much more must flow, And soonest our best men with thee do go, Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery. Thou art slave to Fate, Chance, kings, and desperate men, And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell, And poppy, or charms can make us sleep as well, And better than thy stroke; why swell'st thou then? One short sleep past, we wake eternally, And death shall be no more; death, thou shalt die.

Mont Blanc

Dizzy Ravine! and when I gaze on thee I seem as in a trance sublime and strange To muse on my own separate fantasy, My own, my human mind, which passively Now renders and receives fast influencings, Holding an unremitting interchange With the clear universe of things around; One legion of wild thoughts, whose wandering wings Now float above thy darkness, and now rest Where that or thou art no unbidden guest.Dizzy Ravine! and when I gaze on thee I seem as in a trance sublime and strange To muse on my own separate fantasy, My own, my human mind, which passively Now renders and receives fast influencings, Holding an unremitting interchange With the clear universe of things around; One legion of wild thoughts, whose wandering wings Now float above thy darkness, and now rest Where that or thou art no unbidden guest.

Joseph Andrews

Do you consider this gun is only charged with shot, and that the robbers are probably furnished with pistols loaded with bullets? (2.9.2)

Joseph Andrews

Don't you? said she, then you are either a fool or pretend to be so. (1.5.1)

THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER THE

Down dropped the breeze, the sails dropped down, 'Twas sad as sad could be; And we did speak only to break The silence of the sea! (II.26)

Pride and Prejudice

Elizabeth was much too embarrassed to say a word. After a short pause, her companion added, "You are too generous to trifle with me. If your feelings are still what they were last April, tell me so at once. My affections and wishes are unchanged, but one word from you will silence me on this subject forever." Elizabeth feeling all the more than common awkwardness and anxiety of his situation, now forced herself to speak; and immediately, though not very fluently, gave him to understand, that her sentiments had undergone so material a change, since the period to which he alluded, as to make her receive with gratitude and pleasure, his present assurances.

Astrophil and Stella Summary and context

English sonnet sequence containing 108 sonnets and 11 songs. The name derives from the two Greek words, 'aster' (star) and 'phil' (lover), and the Latin word 'stella' meaning star. Thus Astrophil is the star lover, and Stella is his star. Sidney partly nativized the key features of his Italian model Petrarch, including an ongoing but partly obscure narrative, the philosophical trappings of the poet in relation to love and desire, and musings on the art of poetic creation. Sidney also adopts the Petrarchan rhyme scheme, though he uses it with such freedom that fifteen variants are employed.[1] Some have suggested that the love represented within the sequence may be a literal one as Sidney evidently connects Astrophil to himself and Stella to Lady Penelope Devereux, afterward Lady Rich. Sidney and Lady Penelope had been betrothed when the latter was a child. For some reason the match was broken off, and Lady Penelope married Lord Rich, with whom she lived for a while most unhappily. She is thought to be the Penelope Rich, the wife of Robert Rich, 3rd Baronet. Payne and Hunter suggest that modern criticism, though not explicitly rejecting this connection, leans more towards the viewpoint that writers happily create a poetic persona, artificial and distinct from themselves

Ode to a Grecian Urn

Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare; Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss, Though winning near the goal—yet, do not grieve;(lines 15-18)

The Rape of the Lock

First, rob'd in White, the Nymph intent adores With Head uncover'd, the cosmetic Pow'rs. A heav'nly Image in the Glass appears, To that she bends, to that her Eyes she rears; (I.123-126)

The Relic

First, we lov'd well and faithfully, Yet knew not what we lov'd, nor why; Difference of sex no more we knew Than our guardian angels do; Coming and going, we Perchance might kiss, but not between those meals; Our hands ne'er touch'd the seals Which nature, injur'd by late law, sets free; These miracles we did, but now alas, All measure, and all language, I should pass, Should I tell what a miracle she was.

The Canonization

For God's sake hold your tongue, and let me love, Or chide my palsy, or my gout, My five gray hairs, or ruined fortune flout, With wealth your state, your mind with arts improve, Take you a course, get you a place, Observe his honor, or his grace, Or the king's real, or his stampèd face Contemplate; what you will, approve, So you will let me love.

LYCIDAS

For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime, Young Lycidas, and hath not left his peer (8-9)

Absalom and Achitophel

For close Designs, and crooked Counsels fit; Sagacious, Bold, and Turbulent of wit: Restless, unfixt in Principles and Place; In Power unpleas'd, impatient of Disgrace. . . . A daring Pilot in extremity; Pleas'd with the Danger, when the Waves went high He sought the Storms; but for a Calm unfit, Would Steer too nigh the Sands to boast his Wit. Great Wits are sure to Madness near ally'd; And thin Partitions do their Bounds divide.

Ode to a Grecian Urn

For ever warm and still to be enjoy'd, For ever panting, and for ever young; All breathing human passion far above, That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy'd, A burning forehead, and a parching tongue. (lines 26-30)

The Poet

For poetry was all written before time was, and whenever we are so finely organized that we can penetrate into that region where the air is music, we hear those primal warblings, and attempt to write them down, but we lose ever and anon a word, or a verse, and substitute something of our own, and thus miswrite the poem. The men of more delicate ear write down these cadences more faithfully, and these transcripts, though imperfect, become the songs of the nations. For nature is as truly beautiful as it is good, or as it is reasonable, and must as much appear, as it must be done, or be known. Words and deeds are quite indifferent modes of the divine energy. Words are also actions, and actions are a kind of words

LYCIDAS

For we were nursed upon the self-same hill, Fed the same flock; by fountain, shade, and rill (23-24)

Shakespeare Sonnet 1

From fairest creatures we desire increase, That thereby beauty's rose might never die, But as the riper should by time decease, His tender heir might bear his memory: But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes, Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel, Making a famine where abundance lies, Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel. Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament And only herald to the gaudy spring, Within thine own bud buriest thy content And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding. Pity the world, or else this glutton be, To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.

"Out of the Cradle Endlessly Rocking

From your memories, sad brother—from the fitful risings and fallings I heard, From under that yellow half-moon, late-risen, and swollen as if with tears, From those beginning notes of sickness and love, there in the transparent mist, From the thousand responses of my heart, never to cease, From the myriad thence-arous'd words, From the word stronger and more delicious than any, From such, as now they start, the scene revisiting, As a flock, twittering, rising, or overhead passing, Borne hither—ere all eludes me, hurriedly, A man—yet by these tears a little boy again, Throwing myself on the sand, confronting the waves, I, chanter of pains and joys, uniter of here and hereafter, Taking all hints to use them—but swiftly leaping beyond them, A reminiscence sing. "

Sir Gawain and the Green Knight

Gawain was glad to begin those games in hall, But if the end be harsher, hold it no wonder, For though men are merry in mind after much drink, A year passes apace, and proves ever new: First things and final conform but seldom.

Hamlet

Give thy thoughts no tongue, Nor any unproportion'd thought his act. Be thou familiar, but by no means vulgar. Those friends thou hast, and their adoption tried, Grapple them unto thy soul with hoops of steel; But do not dull thy palm with entertainment Of each new-hatch'd, unfledg'd comrade. Beware Of entrance to a quarrel; but, being in, Bear't that the opposed may beware of thee. Give every man thine ear, but few thy voice: Take each man's censure, but reserve thy judgment. Costly thy habit as thy purse can buy, But not express'd in fancy; rich, not gaudy: For the apparel oft proclaims the man; And they in France of the best rank and station Are most select and generous chief in that. Neither a borrower nor a lender be: For loan oft loses both itself and friend; And borrowing dulls the edge of husbandry. This above all,—to thine own self be true; And it must follow, as the night the day, Thou canst not then be false to any man.

"Song" ["Go and Catch a Falling Star"]

Go and catch a falling star, Get with child a mandrake root, Tell me where all past years are, Or who cleft the devil's foot, Teach me to hear mermaids singing, Or to keep off envy's stinging, And find What wind Serves to advance an honest mind.

"The World Is Too Much with Us"

Great God! I'd rather be A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn

Paradise Lost

Hail holy Light, offspring of Heav'n first-born, Or of th' Eternal Coeternal beam May I express thee unblam'd? since God is Light, And never but in unapproached Light Dwelt from Eternity, dwelt then in thee, Bright effluence of bright essence increate.

AMORETTI

Happy ye leaves when as those lilly hands, Which hold my life in their dead doing might Shall handle you and hold in loves soft bands, Lyke captives trembling at the victors sight. And happy lines, on which with starry light, Those lamping eyes will deigne sometimes to look And reade the sorrowes of my dying spright, Written with teares in harts close bleeding book. And happy rymes bath'd in the sacred brooke, Of Helicon whence she derived is, When ye behold that Angels blessed looke, My soules long lacked foode, my heavens blis. Leaves, lines, and rymes, seeke her to please alone, Whom if ye please, I care for other none.

Dover Beach

Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light, (33)Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain; (34)

Joseph Andrews

Have you so much more sense and so much more virtue than you handsome young fellow generally have, who make no scruple of sacrificing our dear reputation to your pride, without considering the great obligation we lay on you, by our condescension and confidence? (1.5.1)

Caedmon`s Hymn

He first created for men's sons heaven as a roof (5-6)

THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER THE

He holds him with his glittering eye - The wedding-guest stood still, And listens like a three-years' child: The mariner hath his will. (I.4)

LYCIDAS

He must not float upon his watery bier Unwept, and welter to the parching wind, Without the meed of some melodious tear. (12-14)

Gulliver's Travels

He said, he knew no Reason, why those who entertain Opinions prejudicial to the Publick, should be obliged to change, or should not be obliged to conceal them. And, as it was Tyranny in any Government to require the first, so it was Weakness not to enforce the second.

Joseph Andrews

He was of the highest degree of middle stature. (1.8.4)

The Rape of the Lock

Hear and believe! thy own Importance know, Nor bound thy narrow Views to Things below. Some secret Truths from Learned Pride conceal'd, To Maids alone and Children are reveal'd: What tho' no Credit doubting Wits may give? The Fair and Innocent shall still believe. (I.35-40)

Ode to a Grecian Urn

Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on; Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd, Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone: (lines 11-14)

THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER THE

Her lips were red, her looks were free, Her locks were yellow as gold: Her skin was as white as leprosy, The nightmare Life-in-Death was she, Who thicks man's blood with cold.

The Rape of the Lock

Her lively Looks a sprightly Mind disclose, Quick as her Eyes, and as unfix'd as those: Favours to none, to all she Smiles extends, Oft she rejects, but never once offends. (II.9-12)

Joseph Andrews

Her nose was likewise rather too large; and her eyes too little; nor did she resemble a cow so much as in her breath [...]. (1.6.5)

Joseph Andrews

His hair was a nut-brown colour, and was displayed in wanton ringlets down his back. (1.8.4)

Joseph Andrews

Horatio desired Bellarmine to withdraw with him: but the ladies prevented it by laying violent hands on the latter. (2.4.40)

Moby-Dick

How it is I know not; but there is no place like a bed for confidential disclosures between friends. Man and wife, they say, there open the very bottom of their souls to each other; and some old couples often lie and chat over old times till nearly morning. Thus, then, in our hearts' honeymoon, lay I and Queequeg—a cosy, loving pair.

King Lear

Howl, howl, howl, howl! O, you are men of stones: Had I your tongues and eyes, I'd use them so That heaven's vault should crack. She's gone forever! I know when one is dead, and when one lives; She's dead as earth.

Jane Eyre

I am glad you are no relation of mine. I will never call you aunt again as long as I live. I will never come to visit you when I am grown up; and if any one asks me how I liked you, and how you treated me, I will say the very thought of you makes me sick, and that you treated me with miserable cruelty. . . . You think I have no feelings, and that I can do without one bit of love or kindness; but I cannot live so: and you have no pity. I shall remember how you thrust me back . . . into the red-room. . . . And that punishment you made me suffer because your wicked boy struck me—knocked me down for nothing. I will tell anybody who asks me questions this exact tale. 'Ere I had finished this reply, my soul began to expand, to exult, with the strangest sense of freedom, of triumph, I ever felt. It seemed as if an invisible bond had burst, and that I had struggled out into unhoped-for liberty. . . .

Joseph Andrews

I believe the rascal is a coward, tho' he pretends to be in love forsooth. (2.9.2)

"My Last Duchess"

I call That piece a wonder, now: Frà Pandolf's hands Worked busily a day, and there she stands. (2-4)

THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER THE

I closed my lids, and kept them close, Till the balls like pulses beat; For the sky and the sea, and the sea and the sky Lay like a load on my weary eye, And the dead were at my feet. (IV.58)

LYCIDAS

I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude, And with forced fingers rude Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year (3-5)

Jane Eyre

I could not help it; the restlessness was in my nature; it agitated me to pain sometimes. Then my sole relief was to walk along the corridor of the third story, backwards and forwards, safe in the silence and solitude of the spot, and allow my mind's eye to dwell on whatever bright visions rose before it—and, certainly, they were many and glowing; to let my heart be heaved by the exultant movement . . . and, best of all, to open my inward ear to a tale that was never ended—a tale my imagination created, and narrated continuously; quickened with all of incident, life, fire, feeling, that I desired and had not in my actual existence. It is in vain to say human beings ought to be satisfied with tranquility: they must have action; and they will make it if they cannot find it. Millions are condemned to a stiller doom than mine, and millions are in silent revolt against their lot. Nobody knows how many rebellions besides political rebellions ferment in the masses of life which people earth. Women are supposed to be very calm generally: but women feel just as men feel; they need exercise for their faculties, and a field for their efforts as much as their brothers do; they suffer from too rigid a restraint, too absolute a stagnation, precisely as men would suffer; and it is narrow-minded in their more privileged fellow-creatures to say that they ought to confine themselves to making puddings and knitting stockings, to playing on the piano and embroidering bags. It is thoughtless to condemn them, or laugh at them, if they seek to do more or learn more than custom has pronounced necessary for their sex.

Narrative of the Life of Frederick Douglass

I did not, when a slave, understand the deep meaning of those rude and apparently incoherent songs. I was myself within the circle; so that I neither saw nor heard as those without might see and hear.

"I Felt a Funeral, in my Brain"

I felt a Funeral, in my Brain, And Mourners to and fro Kept treading - treading - till it seemed That Sense was breaking through - And when they all were seated, A Service, like a Drum - Kept beating - beating - till I thought My mind was going numb - And then I heard them lift a Box And creak across my Soul With those same Boots of Lead, again, Then Space - began to toll, As all the Heavens were a Bell, And Being, but an Ear, And I, and Silence, some strange Race, Wrecked, solitary, here - And then a Plank in Reason, broke, And I dropped down, and down - And hit a World, at every plunge, And Finished knowing - then -

A Midsummer Night's Dream

I have had a most rare vision. I have had a dream past the wit of man to say what dream it was. Man is but an ass if he go about t'expound this dream. Methought I was—there is no man can tell what. Methought I was, and methought I had—but man is but a patched fool if he will offer to say what methought I had. The eye of man hath not heard, the ear of man hath not seen, man's hand is not able to taste, his tongue to conceive, nor his heart to report what my dream was. I will get Peter Quince to write a ballad of this dream. It shall be called 'Bottom's Dream', because it hath no bottom.

Jane Eyre

I have now been married ten years. I know what it is to live entirely for and with what I love best on earth. I hold myself supremely blest—blest beyond what language can express; because I am my husband's life as fully as he is mine. No woman was ever nearer to her mate than I am: ever more absolutely bone of his bone, and flesh of his flesh. I know no weariness of my Edward's society: he knows none of mine, any more than we each do of the pulsation of the heart that beats in our separate bosoms; consequently, we are ever together. To be together is for us to be at once as free as in solitude, as gay as in company. We talk, I believe, all day long: to talk to each other is but a more animated and an audible thinking. All my confidence is bestowed on him, all his confidence is devoted to me; we are precisely suited in character—perfect concord is the result.

Hamlet

I have of late,—but wherefore I know not,—lost all my mirth, forgone all custom of exercises; and indeed, it goes so heavily with my disposition that this goodly frame, the earth, seems to me a sterile promontory; this most excellent canopy, the air, look you, this brave o'erhanging firmament, this majestical roof fretted with golden fire,—why, it appears no other thing to me than a foul and pestilent congregation of vapours. What a piece of work is man! How noble in reason! how infinite in faculties! in form and moving, how express and admirable! in action how like an angel! in apprehension, how like a god! the beauty of the world! the paragon of animals! And yet, to me, what is this quintessence of dust?

THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER THE

I looked to heaven, and tried to pray; But or ever a prayer had gushed, A wicked whisper came, and made My heart as dry as dust. (IV.57)

Frankenstein

I saw—with shut eyes, but acute mental vision—I saw the pale student of unhallowed arts kneeling beside the thing he had put together. I saw the hideous phantasm of a man stretched out, and then, on the working of some powerful engine, show signs of life and stir with an uneasy, half-vital motion. Frightful must it be, for supremely frightful would be the effect of any human endeavor to mock the stupendous mechanism of the Creator of the world.

Henry V

I think it is e'en Macedon where Alexander is porn. I tell you, captain, if you look in the maps of the world I warrant you sall find, in the comparisons between Macedon and Monmouth, that the situations, look you, is both alike. There is a river in Macedon, and there is also moreover a river at Monmouth. . . . If you mark Alexander's life well, Harry of Monmouth's life is come after it indifferent well. For there is figures in all things. Alexander, God knows, and you know, in his rages and his furies and his wraths and his cholers and his moods and his displeasures and his indignations, and also being a little intoxicates in his prains, did in his ales and his angers, look you, kill his best friend Cleitus — (IV.vii.18-32)

WaldenHenry David Thoreau

I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived.

"The Good Morrow,"

I wonder, by my troth, what thou and I Did, till we loved? Were we not weaned till then? But sucked on country pleasures, childishly? Or snorted we in the Seven Sleepers' den? 'Twas so; but this, all pleasures fancies be. If ever any beauty I did see, Which I desired, and got, 'twas but a dream of thee.

Joseph Andrews

I would advise you to lay aside that fierce air; for I am mightily deceived, if this lady had not a violent desire to get your worship a good drubbing. (2.4.38)

Frankenstein

I, the miserable and the abandoned, am an abortion, to be spurned at, and kicked, and trampled on.

Holy Sonnets

If faithful souls be alike glorified As angels, then my father's soul doth see, And adds this even to full felicity, That valiantly I hell's wide mouth o'erstride: But if our minds to these souls be descried By circumstances, and by signs that be Apparent in us, not immediately, How shall my mind's white truth by them be tried? They see idolatrous lovers weep and mourn, And vile blasphemous conjurers to call On Jesus name, and Pharisaical Dissemblers feigne devotion. Then turn, O pensive soul, to God, for he knows best Thy true grief, for he put it in my breast.

The Relic

If this fall in a time, or land, Where mis-devotion doth command, Then he, that digs us up, will bring Us to the bishop, and the king, To make us relics; then Thou shalt be a Mary Magdalen, and I A something else thereby; All women shall adore us, and some men; And since at such time miracles are sought, I would have that age by this paper taught What miracles we harmless lovers wrought.

Culture and Anarchy

In Culture and Anarchy, Matthew Arnold sought a center of authority by which the anarchy caused by the troubled passage of the Reform Bill of 1867 might be regulated. At its best, his style is clear, flexible, and convincing. He wrote in such a complicated mood of indignation, impatience, and fear, however, that his style and his argumentative method are frequently repetitious and unsystematic. The book is nevertheless a masterpiece of polished prose, in which urbane irony and shifts of ridicule are used to persuade the Victorian middle class that it must reform itself before it can begin to reform the entire nation.

Absalom and Achitophel

In Friendship False, Implacable in Hate: Resolv'd to Ruine or to Rule the State. To Compass this the Triple Bond he broke; The Pillars of the publick Safety shook: And fitted Israel for a foreign Yoke. Then, seiz'd with Fear, yet still affecting Fame, Usurp'd a Patriott's All-attoning Name.

Narrative of the Life of Frederick Douglass

In coming to a fixed determination to run away, we did more than Patrick Henry, when he resolved upon liberty or death.

The Poet Summary

In the essay, Emerson expresses the need for the United States to have its own new and unique poet to write about the new country's virtues and vices: Our logrolling, our stumps and their politics, our fisheries, our Negroes, and Indians, our boasts, and our repudiations, the wrath of rogues, and the pusillanimity of honest men, the northern trade, the southern planting, the western clearing, Oregon, and Texas, are yet unsung. The final lines in the essay read as follows: Wherever snow falls or water flows or birds fly, wherever day and night meet in twilight, wherever the blue heaven is hung by clouds or sown with stars, wherever are forms with transparent boundaries, wherever are outlets into celestial space, wherever is danger, and awe, and love, there is Beauty, plenteous as rain, shed for thee, and though thou shouldest walk the world over, thou shalt not be able to find a condition inopportune or ignoble.

Pride and Prejudice

In vain have I struggled. It will not do. My feelings will not be repressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you." Elizabeth's astonishment was beyond expression. She stared, coloured, doubted, and was silent. This he considered sufficient encouragement, and the avowal of all that he felt and had long felt for her, immediately followed. He spoke well, but there were feelings besides those of the heart to be detailed, and he was not more eloquent on the subject of tenderness than of pride. His sense of her inferiority—of its being a degradation—of the family obstacles which judgment had always opposed to inclination, were dwelt on with a warmth which seemed due to the consequence he was wounding, but was very unlikely to recommend his suit.

Joseph Andrews

It is an observation sometimes made, that to indicate our idea of a simple fellow, we say, He is easily to be seen through: nor do I believe it a more improper denotation of a simple book. (1.11.1)

WaldenHenry David Thoreau

It is not worth the while to go round the world to count the cats in Zanzibar.

"The World Is Too Much with Us"

It moves us not

Joseph Andrews

Joseph would have found therefore, very likely, the passage free, had he not, when he honestly discovered the nakedness of his pockets, pulled out the little piece of gold which we have mentioned before. (2.2.7)

The Rape of the Lock

Know farther yet; Whoever fair and chaste Rejects Mankind, is by some Sylph embrac'd: (I.67-70)

Joseph Andrews

Leonora was [...] tall and well-shaped, with a sprightliness in her countenance, which often attracts beyond more regular features joined with an inspid air [...]. (2.4.1)

Shakespeare Sonnet 116

Let me not to the marriage of true minds Admit impediments. Love is not love Which alters when it alteration finds, Or bends with the remover to remove. O no! it is an ever-fixed mark That looks on tempests and is never shaken; It is the star to every wand'ring bark, Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken. Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks Within his bending sickle's compass come; Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, But bears it out even to the edge of doom. If this be error and upon me prov'd, I never writ, nor no man ever lov'd.

The Lamb

Little Lamb who made thee Dost thou know who made thee Gave thee life & bid thee feed. By the stream & o'er the mead; Gave thee clothing of delight, Softest clothing wooly bright; Gave thee such a tender voice, Making all the vales rejoice! Little Lamb who made thee Dost thou know who made thee Little Lamb I'll tell thee, Little Lamb I'll tell thee! He is called by thy name, For he calls himself a Lamb: He is meek & he is mild, He became a little child: I a child & thou a lamb, We are called by his name. Little Lamb God bless thee. Little Lamb God bless thee.

"The World Is Too Much with Us"

Little we see in Nature that is ours

Mont Blanc thematic summary

Looking down on a ravine, the speaker of this poem is taken into that exalted state: the sublime. Shelley's description shows us that actually the sublime is about an interaction between nature and the mind. It isn't just one thing and the other; it's both: "My own, my human mind.../ Holding an unremitting interchange/ With the clear universe of things around." The sublime is both outside and inside the speaker. And as usual, the sublime takes the speaker to a crazy place. He describes his thoughts as "wild thoughts" with "wandering wings." The sublime is intense, people. And we can see that in the speaker's description of his state here.

A Midsummer Night's Dream

Lord, what fools these mortals be!

Doctor Faustus

M: Hell hath no limits, nor is circumscribed In one self-place; for where we are is hell, And where hell is, there must we ever be. . . . All places shall be hell that is not heaven. F: Come, I think hell's a fable. M.: Ay, think so still, till experience change thy mind. . . . F: Think'st thou that Faustus is so fond to imagine That after this life there is any pain? Tush, these are trifles and mere old wives' tales. (5.120-135)

Doctor Faustus

M: Why this is hell, nor am I out of it. Think'st thou that I, who saw the face of God, And tasted the eternal joys of heaven, Am not tormented with ten thousand hells In being deprived of everlasting bliss? O Faustus, leave these frivolous demands, Which strike a terror to my fainting soul. F: What, is great Mephastophilis so passionate For being deprivèd of the joys of heaven? Learn thou of Faustus manly fortitude, And scorn those joys thou never shalt possess.

Absalom and Achitophel

Must I at length the sword of justice draw? O curst effect of necessary law! How ill my fear they by my mercy scan, Beware the fury of a patient man. Law they require, let Law then show her face; They could not be content to look on Grace, Her hinder parts, but with a daring eye To tempt the terror of her front and die.

Gulliver's Travels

My Father had a small Estate in Nottinghamshire; I was the Third of five Sons. . . . I was bound Apprentice to Mr. James Bates, an eminent Surgeon in London . . . my Father now and then sending me small Sums of Money. . . . When I left Mr. Bates, I went down to my Father; where, by the Assistance of him and my Uncle John . . . I got Forty Pounds, and a Promise of Thirty Pounds a Year.

Beowulf

O flower of warriors, beware of that trap. Choose, dear Beowulf, the better part, eternal rewards. Do not give way to pride. For a brief while your strength is in bloom but it fades quickly; and soon there will follow illness or the sword to lay you low, or a sudden fire or surge of water or jabbing blade or javelin from the air or repellent age. Your piercing eye will dim and darken; and death will arrive, dear warrior, to sweep you away. (1758-1768)

Holy Sonnets

O might those sighs and tears return again Into my breast and eyes, which I have spent, That I might in this holy discontent Mourn with some fruit, as I have mourned in vain; In mine Idolatry what showers of rain Mine eyes did waste! what griefs my heart did rent! That sufferance was my sin; now I repent; 'Cause I did suffer I must suffer pain. Th' hydropic drunkard, and night-scouting thief, The itchy lecher, and self-tickling proud Have the remembrance of past joys for relief Of comming ills. To (poor) me is allowed No ease; for long, yet vehement grief hath been Th' effect and cause, the punishment and sin.

King Lear

O, reason not the need! Our basest beggars Are in the poorest thing superfluous. Allow not nature more than nature needs, Man's life's as cheap as beast's . . . ... You heavens, give me that patience, patience I need! ... If it be you that stir these daughters' hearts Against their father, fool me not so much To bear it tamely; touch me with noble anger, And let not women's weapons, water-drops, Stain my man's cheeks! No, you unnatural hags, ... No, I'll not weep. I have full cause of weeping, but this heart Shall break into a hundred thousand flaws, Or ere I'll weep. O fool, I shall go mad!

Paradise Lost

Of Man's First Disobedience, and the Fruit Of that Forbidden Tree, whose mortal taste Brought Death into the World, and all our woe, With loss of Eden, till one greater Man Restore us, and regain the blissful Seat, Sing Heav'nly Muse, that on the secret top Of Oreb, or of Sinai, didst inspire That Shepherd, who first taught the chosen Seed, In the Beginning how the Heav'ns and Earth Rose out of Chaos: Or if Sion Hill Delight thee more, and Siloa's Brook that flow'd Fast by the Oracle of God; I thence Invoke thy aid to my advent'rous Song, That with no middle flight intends to soar Above th' Aonian Mount, while it pursues Things unattempted yet in Prose or Rhyme. (I.1-26)

Holy Sonnets

Spit in my face you Jews, and pierce my side, Buffet, and scoff, scourge, and crucify me, For I have sinned, and sinned, and only he Who could do no iniquity hath died: But by my death can not be satisfied My sins, which pass the Jews' impiety: They killed once an inglorious man, but I Crucify him daily, being now glorified. Oh let me, then, his strange love still admire: Kings pardon, but he bore our punishment. And Jacob came clothed in vile harsh attire But to supplant, and with gainful intent: God clothed himself in vile man's flesh, that so He might be weak enough to suffer woe.

The Rape of the Lock

Th' Adventrous Baron the bright Locks admir'd, He saw, he wish'd, and to the Prize aspir'd: Resolv'd to win, he meditates the way, By Force to ravish, or by Fraud betray; For when Success a Lover's Toil attends, Few ask, if Fraud or Force attain'd his Ends. (II.29-34)

Shakespeare Sonnet 129

Th' expense of spirit in a waste of shame Is lust in action; and till action, lust Is perjured, murd'rous, bloody, full of blame, Savage, extreme, rude, cruel, not to trust, Enjoyed no sooner but despisèd straight, Past reason hunted; and, no sooner had Past reason hated as a swallowed bait On purpose laid to make the taker mad; Mad in pursuit and in possession so, Had, having, and in quest to have, extreme; A bliss in proof and proved, a very woe; Before, a joy proposed; behind, a dream. All this the world well knows; yet none knows well To shun the heaven that leads men to this hell.

The Rape of the Lock

The Fair each moment rises in her Charms, Repairs her Smiles, awakens ev'ry Grace, And calls forth all the Wonders of her Face; Sees by Degrees a purer Blush arise, And keener Lightnings quicken in her Eyes. (I.140-144)

Canterbury Tales

The Firste Moevere of the cause above, Whan he first made the faire cheyne of love, Greet was th'effect, and heigh was his entente. . . . For with that faire cheyne of love he bond The fyr, the eyr, the water, and the lond In certeyn boundes, that they may nat flee.

"Lines Composed A Few Miles Above Tintern Abbey blank verse

The day is come when I again repose Here, under this dark sycamore, and view These plots of cottage-ground, these orchard tufts,

"A Modest Proposal"

The full title of Swift's pamphlet is "A Modest Proposal for Preventing the Children of Poor People from Being a Burthen to their Parents, or the Country, and for Making them Beneficial to the Publick." The tract is an ironically conceived attempt to "find out a fair, cheap, and easy Method" for converting the starving children of Ireland into "sound and useful members of the Commonwealth." Across the country poor children, predominantly Catholics, are living in squalor because their families are too poor to keep them fed and clothed. The author argues, by hard-edged economic reasoning as well as from a self-righteous moral stance, for a way to turn this problem into its own solution. His proposal, in effect, is to fatten up these undernourished children and feed them to Ireland's rich land-owners. Children of the poor could be sold into a meat market at the age of one, he argues, thus combating overpopulation and unemployment, sparing families the expense of child-bearing while providing them with a little extra income, improving the culinary experience of the wealthy, and contributing to the overall economic well-being of the nation. The author offers statistical support for his assertions and gives specific data about the number of children to be sold, their weight and price, and the projected consumption patterns. He suggests some recipes for preparing this delicious new meat, and he feels sure that innovative cooks will be quick to generate more. He also anticipates that the practice of selling and eating children will have positive effects on family morality: husbands will treat their wives with more respect, and parents will value their children in ways hitherto unknown. His conclusion is that the implementation of this project will do more to solve Ireland's complex social, political, and economic problems than any other measure that has been proposed.

WaldenHenry David Thoreau

The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation.

Doctor Faustus

The reward of sin is death? That's hard. Si peccasse negamus, fallimur, et nulla est in nobis veritas. If we say that we have no sin, We deceive ourselves, and there's no truth in us. Why then belike we must sin, And so consequently die. Ay, we must die an everlasting death. What doctrine call you this? Che sarà, sarà: What will be, shall be! Divinity, adieu! These metaphysics of magicians, And necromantic books are heavenly!

Dover Beach

The sea is calm tonight. (1)

LYCIDAS

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 (39-44)

Henry V

Then imitate the action of the tiger. Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood, Disguise fair nature with hard-favoured rage. Then lend the eye a terrible aspect, . . . Now set the teeth and stretch the nostril wide, Hold hard the breath, and bend up every spirit To his full height. On, on, you noblest English, Whose blood is fet from fathers of war-proof, Fathers that like so many Alexanders Have in these parts from morn till even fought, And sheathed their swords for lack of argument. Dishonour not your mothers; now attest That those whom you called fathers did beget you. Be copy now to men of grosser blood, And teach them how to war. And you, good yeomen, Whose limbs were made in England, show us here The mettle of your pasture. . . . (III.i.6-27)

Joseph Andrews

Then she thought of revenging his refusal on herself; but whilst she was engaged in this meditation, happily death presented himself to her in so many shapes of drowning, hanging, poisoning &c. that her distracted brain could resolve on none. (1.18.10)

LYCIDAS

There entertain him all the saints above, In solemn troops, and sweet societies That sing, and singing in their glory move, And wipe the tears forever from his eyes (178-181)

Sir Gawain and the Green Knight

There hurtles in at the hall-door an unknown rider, One the greatest on ground in growth of his frame: From broad neck to buttocks so bulky and thick, And his loins and his legs so long and so great, Half a giant on earth I hold him to be, But believe him no less than the largest of men, And the seemliest in his stature to see, as he rides, For in back and in breast though his body was grim, His waist in its width was worthily small, And formed with every feature in fair accord was he. Great wonder grew in hall At his hue most strange to see, For man and gear and all Were green as green could be. (136-150)

Moby-Dick

There is a wisdom that is woe; but there is a woe that is madness. And there is a Catskill eagle in some souls that can alike dive down into the blackest gorges, and soar out of them again and become invisible in the sunny spaces. And even if he for ever flies within the gorge, that gorge is in the mountains; so that even in his lowest swoop the mountain eagle is still higher than other birds upon the plain, even though they soar.

"Lines Composed A Few Miles Above Tintern Abbey blank verse

These beauteous forms, Through a long absence, have not been to me As is a landscape to a blind man's eye (22-24)

Pride and Prejudice

They gradually ascended for half a mile, and then found themselves at the top of a considerable eminence, where the wood ceased, and the eye was instantly caught by Pemberley House, situated on the opposite side of a valley, into which the road with some abruptness wound. It was a large, handsome, stone building, standing well on rising ground, and backed by a ridge of high woody hills;—and in front, a stream of some natural importance was swelled into greater, but without any artificial appearance. Its banks were neither formal, nor falsely adorned. Elizabeth was delighted. She had never seen a place where nature had done more, or where natural beauty had been so little counteracted by an awkward taste. They were all of them warm in her admiration; and at that moment she felt that to be mistress of Pemberley might be something!

Paradise Lost

This having learnt, thou hast attained the sum Of Wisdom; hope no higher, though all the Stars Thou knew'st by name, and all th' ethereal Powers, All secrets of the deep, all Nature's works, Or works of God in Heav'n, Air, Earth, or Sea, And all riches of this World enjoy'dst, And all the rule, one Empire: only add Deeds to thy knowledge answerable, add Faith, Add Virtue, Patience, Temperance, add Love, By name to come called Charity, the soul Of all the rest: then wilt though not be loth To leave this Paradise, but shalt possess A paradise within thee, happier far. (XII.575-587)

Song of myself 6

This whole section is about grass. A child asked him what the grass was, and he couldn't answer, except to guess that grass must be the symbol or "flag" of our hopeful nature. Green is the color of hope. Or, it could be like God's handkerchief, just a little something to remember him by. Or, it could be the child of all the other plants. Or, it could be a "hieroglyphic," a kind of writing that symbolizes the equality of all people and things. After all, the grass grows the same everywhere, and for everyone. (Or so he thought. Shmoop's lawn in California doesn't do so well...) Or, it could be like "hair" of graves. This line seems pretty unexpected. The idea is that things are being born and dying so often that all grass must be covering some kind of grave. More generally, the soil itself is a "grave" that everyone returns to eventually. Whitman thinks about what kinds of people might have been buried in the soil beneath him, whether they were young men, mothers, or small children who died too soon. The grass comes from the mouths of dead people, like so many "uttering tongues." He wishes he could translate what they were saying. Finally, he decides that people don't ever fully disappear, perhaps because we all belong to the same web of life, and that death itself is not such a bad thing.

Holy Sonnets

Thou hast made me, and shall thy work decay? Repair me now, for now mine end doth haste, I run to death, and death meets me as fast, And all my pleasures are like yesterday; I dare not move my dim eyes any way, Despair behind, and death before doth cast Such terror, and my feeble flesh doth waste By sin in it, which it t'wards hell doth weigh; Only thou art above, and when towards thee By thy leave I can look, I rise again; But our old subtle foe so tempteth me, That not one hour my self I can sustain; Thy Grace may wing me to prevent his art, And thou like Adamant draw mine iron heart.

Ode to a Grecian Urn

Thou still unravish'd bride of quietness, (line 1)

King Lear

Thou, nature, art my goddess; to thy law My services are bound. Wherefore should I Stand in the plague of custom, and permit The curiosity of nations to deprive me, For that I am some twelve or fourteen moonshines Lag of a brother? Why bastard? wherefore base? ... Legitimate Edgar, I must have your land. Our father's love is to the bastard Edmund As to the legitimate. Fine word—"legitimate"! Well, my legitimate, if this letter speed, And my invention thrive, Edmund the base Shall top the legitimate. I grow; I prosper. Now, gods, stand up for bastards!

A Midsummer Night's Dream

Through Athens I am thought as fair as she. But what of that? Demetrius thinks not so. He will not know what all but he do know. And as he errs, doting on Hermia's eyes, So I, admiring of his qualities. Things base and vile, holding no quantity, Love can transpose to form and dignity. Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind, And therefore is winged Cupid painted blind.

Canterbury Tales

Thus swyved was this carpenteris wyf, For al his kepyng and his jalousye; And Absolon hath kist hir nether ye; And Nicholas is scalded in the towte. This tale is doon, and God save al the rowte!

"The Sun Rising,"

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.

Hamlet

To be, or not to be: that is the question: Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune Or to take arms against a sea of troubles, And by opposing end them?—To die,—to sleep,— No more; and by a sleep to say we end The heartache, and the thousand natural shocks That flesh is heir to,—'tis a consummation Devoutly to be wish'd. To die,—to sleep;— To sleep: perchance to dream:—ay, there's the rub; For in that sleep of death what dreams may come, When we have shuffled off this mortal coil, Must give us pause: there's the respect That makes calamity of so long life; For who would bear the whips and scorns of time, The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely, The pangs of despis'd love, the law's delay, The insolence of office, and the spurns That patient merit of the unworthy takes, When he himself might his quietus make With a bare bodkin? who would these fardels bear, To grunt and sweat under a weary life, But that the dread of something after death,— The undiscover'd country, from whose bourn No traveller returns,—puzzles the will, And makes us rather bear those ills we have Than fly to others that we know not of? Thus conscience does make cowards of us all; And thus the native hue of resolution Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought; And enterprises of great pith and moment, With this regard, their currents turn awry, And lose the name of action.

LYCIDAS

Together both, ere the high lawns appeared Under the opening eye-lids of the morn, We drove afield (25-27)

Joseph Andrews

Tow-wouse was willing to give him credit 'till next time, to which Mrs. Tow-wouse probably would have consented (for such was Joseph's beauty [...]). (2.2.7)

Moby-Dick

Towards thee I roll, thou all-destroying but unconquering whale; to the last I grapple with thee; from hell's heart I stab at thee; for hate's sake I spit my last breath at thee. Sink all coffins and all hearses to one common pool! and since neither can be mine, let me then tow to pieces, while still chasing thee, though tied to thee, thou damned whale! Thus, I give up the spear!

Tyger

Tyger Tyger, burning bright, In the forests of the night; What immortal hand or eye, Could frame thy fearful symmetry? In what distant deeps or skies. Burnt the fire of thine eyes? On what wings dare he aspire? What the hand, dare seize the fire? And what shoulder, & what art, Could twist the sinews of thy heart? And when thy heart began to beat, What dread hand? & what dread feet? What the hammer? what the chain, In what furnace was thy brain? What the anvil? what dread grasp, Dare its deadly terrors clasp! When the stars threw down their spears And water'd heaven with their tears: Did he smile his work to see? Did he who made the Lamb make thee? Tyger Tyger burning bright, In the forests of the night: What immortal hand or eye, Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

King Lear

Unhappy that I am, I cannot heave My heart into my mouth. I love your majesty According to my bond; no more nor less.

"Out of the Cradle Endlessly Rocking summary

Unlike most of Whitman's poems, this has a fairly distinct plot line. A young boy watches a pair of birds nesting on the beach near his home, and marvels at their relationship to one another. One day the female bird fails to return. The male stays near the nest, calling for his lost mate. The male's cries touch something in the boy, and he seems to be able to translate what the bird is saying. Brought to tears by the bird's pathos, he asks nature to give him the one word "superior to all." In the rustle of the ocean at his feet, he discerns the word "death," which continues, along with the bird's song, to have a presence in his poetry.

Doctor Faustus

Was this the face that launched a thousand ships, And burnt the topless towers of Ilium? Sweet Helen, make me immortal with a kiss: Her lips sucks forth my soul, see where it flies! Come Helen, come, give me my soul again. Here will I dwell, for heaven be in these lips, And all is dross that is not Helena! (12.81-87)

The Canonization

We can die by it, if not live by love, And if unfit for tombs and hearse Our legend be, it will be fit for verse; And if no piece of chronicle we prove, We'll build in sonnets pretty rooms; As well a well-wrought urn becomes The greatest ashes, as half-acre tombs, And by these hymns, all shall approve Us canonized for Love.

Canterbury Tales

Whan that Aprill with his shoures soote The droghte of March hath perced to the roote, And bathed every veyne in swich licour Of which vertu engendred is the flour; Whan Zephirus eek with his sweete breeth Inspired hath in every holt and heeth The tendre croppes, and the yonge sonne Hath in the Ram his halve cours yronne, And smale fowles maken melodye, That slepen al the nyght with open ye (So priketh hem nature in hir corages), Thanne longen folk to goon on pilgrimages.

Paradise Lost

What better can we do, than to place Repairing where he judg'd us, prostrate fall Before him reverent, and there confess Humbly our faults, and pardon beg, with tears Watering the ground, and with our sighs the Air Frequenting, sent from hearts contrite, in sign Of sorrow unfeign'd, and humiliation meek. Undoubtedly he will relent and turn From his displeasure; in whose look serene, When angry most he seem'd and most severe, What else but favor, grace, and mercy shone? So spake our Father penitent, nor Eve Felt less remorse: they forthwith to the place Repairing where he judg'd them prostrate fell Before him reverent, and both confess'd Humbly their faults, and pardon begg'd, with tears Watering the ground, and with their sighs the Air Frequenting, sent from hearts contrite, in sign Of sorrow unfeign'd, and humiliation meek. (X.1086-1104)

LYCIDAS

What could the muse herself that Orpheus bore, The muse herself for her enchanting son Whom universal nature did lament. (58-60)

Absalom and Achitophel

What e'r he did was done with so much ease, In him alone, 'twas Natural to please. His motions all accompanied with grace; And Paradise was open'd in his face. With secret Joy, indulgent David view'd His Youthfull Image in his Son renew'd.

Caedmon`s Hymn Summary

What goes down in a poem of nine lines? You know, just the establishment of the universe, the inauguration of time, the creation of the earth, and the formation of the human species. Caedmon is a master of concise writing. In just two sentences he praises God for doing all of this, while taking time for some fancy word-play and imagery along the way.

Holy Sonnets

What if this present were the world's last night? Mark in my heart, O soul, where thou dost dwell, The picture of Christ crucified, and tell Whether that countenance can thee affright, Tears in his eyes quench the amazing light, Blood fills his frowns, which from his pierced head fell. And can that tongue adjudge thee unto hell, Which prayed forgiveness for his foes' fierce spite? No, no; but as in my idolatry I said to all my profane mistresses, Beauty, of pity, foulness only is A sign of rigour: so I say to thee, To wicked spirits are horrid shapes assigned, This beauteous form assures a piteous mind.

Ode to a Grecian Urn

What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shape Of deities or mortals, or of both, In Tempe or the dales of Arcady? What men or gods are these? What maidens loth? What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape? What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy? (lines 5-10)

Frankenstein

What may not be expected in a country of eternal light?

Shakespeare Sonnet 15

When I consider every thing that grows Holds in perfection but a little moment, That this huge stage presenteth nought but shows Whereon the stars in secret influence comment; When I perceive that men as plants increase, Cheered and cheque'd even by the self-same sky, Vaunt in their youthful sap, at height decrease, And wear their brave state out of memory; Then the conceit of this inconstant stay Sets you most rich in youth before my sight, Where wasteful Time debateth with Decay, To change your day of youth to sullied night; And all in war with Time for love of you, As he takes from you, I engraft you new.

Astrophil and Stella

When Sorrow, using mine own fire's might, Melts down his lead into my boiling breast, Through that dark furnace to my heart oppressed There shines a joy from thee, my only light; But soon as thought of thee breeds my delight, And my young soul flutters to thee, his nest; Most rude despair, my daily unbidden guest, Clips straight my wings, straight wraps me in his night, And makes me then bow down my head and say: 'Ah, what doth Phoebus' gold that wretch avail Whom iron doors do keep from use of day?' So strangely, alas, thy works in me prevail, That in my woes for thee thou art my joy, And in my joys for thee my only annoy.

The Relic

When my grave is broke up again Some second guest to entertain, (For graves have learn'd that woman head, To be to more than one a bed) And he that digs it, spies A bracelet of bright hair about the bone, Will he not let'us alone, And think that there a loving couple lies, Who thought that this device might be some way To make their souls, at the last busy day, Meet at this grave, and make a little stay?

Dover Beach

Where the sea meets the moon-blanched land, (8)Listen! you hear the grating roar Of pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling, (9-10)

"Lines Composed A Few Miles Above Tintern Abbey..."

While here I stand, not only with the sense Of present pleasure, but with the pleasing thoughts That in this moment there is life and food For future years. (62-65)

Narrative of the Life of Frederick Douglass

Whilst I was saddened by the thought of losing the aid of my kind mistress, I was gladdened by the invaluable instruction which, by the merest accident, I had gained from my master.

Song of myself 3

Whitman says he doesn't have much faith in talk and "talkers." (You'll notice that the people Whitman criticizes are never named - they are always just some general group.) Talk is cheap, particularly when people talk about history. He might be referring to religious dogmas about how the world began and how it will end. For Whitman, all history is the history of the present moment. There is no before or after. The present moment is defined by "the procreant urge of the world." We'll read between the lines for you, he's talking about sex. For Whitman, erotic desire - the desire for new forms and new life - defines the world. He describes some of the "mysteries" of the world, like the way "opposites" can be "equals." The world is like a well-built house or a well-bred horse. OK...but what does that really mean? It means the world is not sick or flawed. Whitman is a raging optimist. For him, it's not a question of whether the glass is half empty or half full: the glass is under a waterfall. Speaking of water, while the talkers discuss thing like metaphysics and the nature of the spiritual world, Whitman takes a bath. While "admiring" himself in the bath, he says that every inch of him is beautiful. He seems to be contrasting his view with the Puritan sense of shame in some "dirty" body parts or functions. Whitman is a healthy guy, and the world seems healthy to him. He wants to tell his eyes not to look into the future, but instead to figure out ("cipher") himself.

Song of myself 1

Whitman states what he's going to do in the poem: celebrate himself. This practice might seem a little arrogant, but we'll just go with it. (It turns out, that he's celebrating not only himself, but all of humanity.) He lays out some of his ground rules: we're going to believe ("assume") whatever he believes. At another level, we're going to "take on" whatever roles or personalities the speaker takes on. (This is another definition of the word "assume.") Whitman must have learned to share as a tyke in the sandbox: he offers up the atoms of his body as our own. He introduces another character: his "soul." In this poem, the speaker and his soul are two slightly different things. (Just a note: we normally don't call the speaker of the poem by the poet's name, but in this poem, it just makes things simpler, especially since the speaker tells us that his name is Walt Whitman.) So, Whitman hangs out with his soul, and they look at a blade of summer grass. (The title of the poetry collection to which this poem belongs is Leaves of Grass.) Whitman describes the air as perfume and says he could get drunk on it, but he won't let himself. He wants to get naked and go to the riverbank. He is in love with the air. If you think these images sound kind of erotic, just you wait. There's a reason why Whitman was considered scandalous in his day

Holy Sonnets

Why are we by all creatures waited on? Why do the prodigal elements supply Life and food to me, being more pure than I, Simple, and further from corruption? Why brook'st thou, ignorant horse, subjection? Why dost thou, bull, and bore so seelily, Dissemble weakness, and by one man's stroke die, Whose whole kind you might swallow and feed upon? Weaker I am, woe is me, and worse than you, You have not sinned, nor need be timorous. But wonder at a greater wonder, for to us Created nature doth these things subdue, But their Creator, whom sin nor nature tied, For us, His creatures, and His foes, hath died.

Holy Sonnets

Wilt thou love God, as he thee? Then digest, My soul, this wholesome meditation, How God the Spirit, by angels waited on In heaven, doth make his Temple in thy breast. The Father having begot a Son most blest, And still begetting, (for he ne'er be gone) Hath deigned to choose thee by adoption, Co-heir t' his glory, and Sabbath' endless rest. And as a robbed man, which by search doth find His stol'n stuff sold, must lose or buy 't again: The Son of glory came down, and was slain, Us whom he'd made, and Satan stol'n, to unbind. 'Twas much that man was made like God before, But, that God should be made like man, much more.

Beowulf

Wise sir, do not grieve. It is always better to avenge dear ones than to indulge in mourning. For every one of us, living in this world means waiting for our end. Let whoever can win glory before death. When a warrior is gone, that will be his best and only bulwark. (1384-1389)

Astrophil and Stella

With how sad steps, O Moon, thou climb'st the skies! How silently, and with how wan a face! What, may it be that even in heav'nly place That busy archer his sharp arrows tries! Sure, if that long-with love-acquainted eyes Can judge of love, thou feel'st a lover's case, I read it in thy looks; thy languish'd grace To me, that feel the like, thy state descries. Then, ev'n of fellowship, O Moon, tell me, Is constant love deem'd there but want of wit? Are beauties there as proud as here they be? Do they above love to be lov'd, and yet Those lovers scorn whom that love doth possess? Do they call virtue there ungratefulness?

THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER THE

With throats unslaked, with black lips baked, We could nor laugh nor wail; Through utter drouth all dumb we stood! I bit my arm, I sucked the blood, And cried, A sail! a sail! With throats unslaked, with black lips baked, Agape they heard me call: Gramercy! they for joy did grin, And all at once their breath drew in, As they were drinking all. (III.38-39)

Dover Beach

With tremulous cadence slow, and bring The eternal note of sadness in. (13-14)

Purpose for Preface to Lyrical Ballads Summary

Wordsworth outlines three principles guiding the composition of such lyrical ballads. First, the poetry must concern itself primarily with nature and life in the country. Wordsworth's second reason for writing lyrical ballads is that they emphasize the status of poetry as a form of art. He intends to enlighten his readers as to the true depths of human emotion and experience. Wordsworth argues that good poetry doesn't have to be overly complicated or ornamental in order to capture the reader's imagination. Clean, simple lines are best, in his opinion.

Culture and Anarchy

Writing as a so-called Christian humanist, Arnold primarily directed his criticism against the utilitarianism of the followers of Jeremy Bentham and John Stuart Mill and against the various movements of liberal reform. Disturbed by the social and political confusion, by Fenianism and the Hyde Park Riots of 1866, and by the inability of either the church or the government to cope with the growing unrest both in England and on the Continent, Arnold attempted to describe an objective center of authority that all, regardless of religious or social bias, could follow. This center of authority is culture, which he defined on the level of the individual as "a pursuit of our total perfection by means of getting to know, on all matters which most concern us, the best which has been thought and said in the world." Because this authority is internal, it is a study of perfection within the individual, a study that should elevate the "best self" through a fresh and free search for beauty and intelligence.

Joseph Andrews

Your master is a pretty sort of man to take in naked vagabonds, and clothe them with his own clothes. (1.12.14)

Joseph Andrews

[...] You know, Pamela, I never loved to tell the secrets of my master's family; but to be sure you must have known they never loved one another [...]. (1.6.2)

Joseph Andrews

[...] he desired her to stop, and after some rude kisses, which she resisted, and some entreaties, which she rejected, he laid violent hands on her [...]. (2.9.5)

Sir Gawain and the Green Knight

[T]here hoved a great hall and fair: Turrets rising in tiers, with tines at their tops, Spires set beside them, splendidly long, With finials well-fashioned, as filigree fine. Chalk-white chimneys over chambers high Gleamed in gay array upon gables and roofs; The pinnacles in panoply, pointing in air, So vied there for his view that verily it seemed A castle cut of paper for a king's feast. The good knight on Gringolet thought it great luck If he could but contrive to come there within To keep the Christmas feast in that castle fair and bright. (794-806)

Absalom and Achitophel form

a celebrated satirical poem written in heroic couplets by John Dryden and first published in 1681.

A Defence of Poetry

in which he argues that poetry brings about moral good. Poetry, Shelley argues, exercises and expands the imagination, and the imagination is the source of sympathy, compassion, and love, which rest on the ability to project oneself into the position of another person. He writes, No other English poet of the early nineteenth century so emphasized the connection between beauty and goodness, or believed so avidly in the power of art's sensual pleasures to improve society. Byron's pose was one of amoral sensuousness, or of controversial rebelliousness; Keats believed in beauty and aesthetics for their own sake. But Shelley was able to believe that poetry makes people and society better; his poetry is suffused with this kind of inspired moral optimism, which he hoped would affect his readers sensuously, spiritually, and morally, all at the same time.

"Lines Composed A Few Miles Above Tintern Abbey

more like a man Flying from something that he dreads, than one Who sought the thing he loved

"Lines Composed A Few Miles Above Tintern Abbey blank verse

more like a man Flying from something that he dreads, than one Who sought the thing he loved

Henry V

nd tell the pleasant Prince this mock of his Hath turned his balls to gunstones, and his soul Shall stand sore chargèd for the wasteful vengeance That shall fly from them—for many a thousand widows Shall this his mock mock out of their dear husbands, Mock mothers from their sons, mock castles down; . . . But this lies all within the will of God, To whom I do appeal, and in whose name Tell you the Dauphin I am coming on To venge me as I may, and to put forth My rightful hand in a well-hallowed cause. (I.ii.281-293)

"My Last Duchess"

that pictured countenance, The depth and passion of its earnest glance (7-8)

Caedmon`s Hymn

the Measurer's might and his mind-plans (2)

Absalom and Achitophel

the People have a Right Supreme To make their Kings; for Kings are made for them. All Empire is no more than Pow'r in Trust, Which when resum'd, can be no longer Just. Succession, for the general Good design'd, In its own wrong a Nation cannot bind.

Caedmon`s Hymn

the work of the Glory-Father, when he of wonders of every one, eternal Lord, the beginning established (3-4)

Paradise Lost

thee I revisit safe, And feel thy Sovran vital Lamp; but thou Revisit'st not these eyes, that roll in vain To find thy piercing ray, and find no dawn; So thick a drop serene hath quencht thir Orbs, Or dim suffusion veil'd. Yet not the more Cease I to wander where the Muses haunt Clear Spring, or shady Grove, or Sunny Hill, Smit with the love of sacred Song . . . . . .