Playwrights From England

"Both were so young, and one so innocent, That bathing pass'd for nothing; Juan seem'd To her, as 'twere, the kind of being sent, Of whom these two years she had nightly dream'd, A something to be loved, a creature meant To be her happiness, and whom she deem'd To render happy; all who joy would win Must share it,––Happiness was born a twin."

"What is the end of fame? 'tis but to fill A certain portion of uncertain paper: Some liken it to climbing up a hill, Whose summit, like all hills, is lost in vapour; For this men write, speak, preach, and heroes kill, And bards burn what they call their "midnight taper," To have, when the original is dust, A name, a wretched picture, and worse bust."

"But now at thirty years my hair is gray–– (I wonder what it will be like at forty? I thought of a peruke the other day) My heart is not much greener; and, in short, I Have squander'd my whole summer while 'twas May, And feel no more the spirit to retort; I Have spent my life, both interest and principal, And deem not, what I deem'd my soul invincible."

"She thought of her own strength, and Juan's youth, And of the folly of all prudish fears, Victorious virtue, and domestic truth, And then of Don Alfonso's fifty years: [...] When people say, "I've told you fifty times," They mean to scold, and very often do: When poets say, "I've written fifty rhymes," They make you dread that they'll recite them too; In gangs of fifty thieves commit their crimes: At fifty love for love is rare, 'tis true, But then, no doubt, it equally as true is, A good deal may be bought for fifty louis."

"Jack was embarrassed — never hero more, And as he knew not what to say, he swore."

"Divine in hookas, glorious in a pipe When tipp'd with amber, mellow, rich, and ripe; Like other charmers, wooing the caress More dazzlingly when daring in full dress; Yet thy true lovers more admire by far Thy naked beauties—give me a cigar!"

"Sublime tobacco! which from east to west Cheers the tar's labor or the Turkman's rest."

"While Franklin's quiet memory climbs to heaven, Calming the lightning which he thence hath riven, Or drawing from the no less kindled earth Freedom and peace to that which boasts his birth; While Washington's a watchword, such as ne'er Shall sink while there's an echo left to air."

"Where is he, the champion and the child Of all that's great or little, wise or wild; Whose game was empires, and whose stakes were thrones; Whose table earth — whose dice were human bones?"

"The "good old times" — all times when old are good — Are gone."

"My best! my last friends! Let's not unman each other: part at once: All farewells should be sudden, when for ever, Else they make an eternity of moments, And clog the last sad sands of life with tears. Hence, and be happy: trust me, I am not Now to be pitied; or far more for what Is past than present; — for the future, 'tis In the hands of the deities, if such There be: I shall know soon. Farewell — Farewell."

"The dust we tread upon was once alive."

"Oh! if thou hast at length Discover'd that my love is worth esteem, I ask no more—but let us hence together, And I — let me say we — shall yet be happy. Assyria is not all the earth—we'll find A world out of our own — and be more bless'd Than I have ever been, or thou, with all An empire to indulge thee."

"But take this with thee: if I was not form'd To prize a love like thine, a mind like thine, Nor dote even on thy beauty — as I've doted On lesser charms, for no cause save that such Devotion was a duty, and I hated All that look'd like a chain for me or others (This even rebellion must avouch); yet hear These words, perhaps among my last — that none E'er valued more thy virtues, though he knew not To profit by them…"

"I am the very slave of circumstance And impulse — borne away with every breath! Misplaced upon the throne — misplaced in life. I know not what I could have been, but feel I am not what I should be — let it end."

"Eat, drink, and love; the rest's not worth a fillip."

"By all that's good and glorious."

"How my soul hates This language, Which makes life itself a lie, Flattering dust with eternity."

"O Mirth and Innocence! O milk and water! Ye happy mixtures of more happy days."

"Heart on her lips, and soul within her eyes, Soft as her clime, and sunny as her skies."

"I love the language, that soft bastard Latin, Which melts like kisses from a female mouth, And sounds as if it should be writ on satin, With syllables which breathe of the sweet South, And gentle liquids gliding all so pat in, That not a single accent seems uncouth, Like our harsh northern whistling, grunting guttural, Which we're obliged to hiss, and spit, and sputter all."

"Besides, they always smell of bread and butter."

"His heart was one of those which most enamour us, Wax to receive, and marble to retain: He was a lover of the good old school, Who still become more constant as they cool."

"Soprano, basso, even the contra-alto, Wished him five fathom under the Rialto."

"For most men (till by losing rendered sager) Will back their own opinions by a wager."

"Though the night was made for loving, And the day returns too soon, Yet we'll go no more a roving By the light of the moon."

"For the sword outwears its sheath, And the soul wears out the breast, And the heart must pause to breathe, And love itself have rest."

"So, we'll go no more a roving So late into the night, Though the heart be still as loving, And the moon be still as bright."

"Old man! ’tis not so difficult to die."

"The heart ran o'er With silent worship of the great of old! The dead but sceptred sovereigns, who still rule Our spirits from their urns."

"The stars are forth, the moon above the tops Of the snow-shining mountains. Beautiful! I linger yet with Nature, for the Night Hath been to me a more familiar face Than that of man; and in her starry shade Of dim and solitary loveliness, I learn'd the language of another world."

"There is no power in holy men, Nor charm in prayer, nor purifying form Of penitence, nor outward look, nor fast, Nor agony—nor, greater than all these, The innate tortures of that deep despair, Which is remorse without the fear of hell, But all in all sufficient to itself Would make a hell of heaven,—can exorcise From out the unbounded spirit the quick sense Of its own sins, wrongs, sufferance, and revenge Upon itself; there is no future pang Can deal that justice on the self—condemn'd He deals on his own soul."

"Whate'er I may have been, or am, doth rest between Heaven and myself; I shall not choose a mortal To be my mediator."

"Knowledge is not happiness, and science But an exchange of ignorance for that Which is another kind of ignorance."

"From my youth upwards My spirit walk'd not with the souls of men, Nor look'd upon the earth with human eyes; The thirst of their ambition was not mine, The aim of their existence was not mine; My joys, my griefs, my passions, and my powers Made me a stranger."

"Think'st thou existence doth depend on time? It doth; but actions are our epochs: mine Have made my days and nights imperishable Endless, and all alike, as sands on the shore Innumerable atoms; and one desert Barren and cold, on which the wild waves break, But nothing rests, save carcases and wrecks, Rocks, and the salt-surf weeds of bitterness."

"Patience! Hence—that word was made For brutes of burthen, not for birds of prey; Preach it to mortals of a dust like thine,— I am not of thine order."

"To be thus— Grey-hair'd with anguish, like these blasted pines, Wrecks of a single winter, barkless, branchless, A blighted trunk upon a cursed root, Which but supplies a feeling to decay— And to be thus, eternally but thus, Having been otherwise! Now furrow'd o'er With wrinkles, plough'd by moments, not by years And hours—all tortured into ages—hours Which I outlive!—Ye toppling crags of ice! Ye avalanches, whom a breath draws down In mountainous o'erwhelming, come and crush me! I hear ye momently above, beneath, Crash with a frequent conflict; but ye pass, And only fall on things that still would live."

"But we, who name ourselves its sovereigns, we, Half dust, half deity, alike unfit To sink or soar."

"My mother Earth! And thou fresh breaking Day, and you, ye Mountains, Why are ye beautiful? I cannot love ye. And thou, the bright eye of the universe, That openest over all, and unto all Art a delight—thou shin'st not on my heart."

"By thy cold breast and serpent smile, By thy unfathom'd gulfs of guile, By that most seeming virtuous eye, By thy shut soul's hypocrisy; By the perfection of thine art Which pass'd for human thine own heart; By thy delight in others' pain, And by thy brotherhood of Cain, I call upon thee! and compel Thyself to be thy proper Hell!"

"Mont Blanc is the Monarch of mountains; They crowned him long ago, On a throne of rocks — in a robe of clouds – With a Diadem of Snow."

"Sorrow is knowledge: they who know the most Must mourn the deepest o’er the fatal truth, The Tree of Knowledge is not that of Life."

"Thy Godlike crime was to be kind, To render with thy precepts less The sum of human wretchedness, And strengthen Man with his own mind; But baffled as thou wert from high, Still in thy patient energy, In the endurance, and repulse Of thine impenetrable Spirit, Which Earth and Heaven could not convulse, A mighty lesson we inherit: Thou art a symbol and a sign To Mortals of their fate and force; Like thee, Man is in part divine, A troubled stream from a pure source; And Man in portions can foresee His own funereal destiny; His wretchedness, and his resistance, And his sad unallied existence: To which his Spirit may oppose Itself — and equal to all woes, And a firm will, and a deep sense, Which even in torture can decry Its own concenter'd recompense, Triumphant where it dares defy, And making Death a Victory."

"Titan! to thee the strife was given Between the suffering and the will, Which torture where they cannot kill; And the inexorable Heaven, And the deaf tyranny of Fate, The ruling principle of Hate, Which for its pleasure doth create The things it may annihilate, Refused thee even the boon to die: The wretched gift eternity Was thine — and thou hast borne it well. All that the Thunderer wrung from thee Was but the menace which flung back On him the torments of thy rack; The fate thou didst so well foresee, But would not to appease him tell; And in thy Silence was his Sentence, And in his Soul a vain repentance, And evil dread so ill dissembled, That in his hand the lightnings trembled."

"Titan! to whom immortal eyes The sufferings of mortality Seen in their sad reality, Were not as things that gods despise; What was thy pity's recompense? A silent suffering, and intense; The rock, the vulture, and the chain, All that the proud can feel of pain, The agony they do not show, The suffocating sense of woe, Which speaks but in its loneliness, And then is jealous lest the sky Should have a listener, nor will sigh Until its voice is echoless."

"And they were canopied by the blue sky, So cloudless, clear, and purely beautiful That God alone was to be seen in heaven."

"A change came o'er the spirit of my dream."

"She was his life, The ocean to the river of his thoughts, Which terminated all."

"And to his eye There was but one beloved face on earth, And that was shining on him."