C.N. Douglas, comp. Forty Thousand Quotations: Prose and Poetical. 1917.

Rowe

Are we not one? are we not join’d by heav’n?

Each interwoven with the other’s fate?

Are we not mix’d like streams of meeting rivers

Whose blended waters are no more distinguish’d,

But roll into the sea one common flood?

Bestrew my heart, but it is wond’rous strange;

Sure there is something more than witchcraft in them,

That masters ev’n the wisest of us all.

Comfort, like the golden sun,

Dispels the sullen shade with her sweet influence,

And cheers the melancholy house of care.

Ev’n thus in hell, wander the restless damn’d:

From scorching flames to chilling frosts they run;

Then from their frosts to fires return again,

And only prove variety of pain.

Fatal ambition! say what wondrous charms

Delude mankind to toil for thee in arms?

Fly from the court’s pernicious neighborhood;

Where innocence is sham’d, and blushing modesty

Is made the scorner’s jest; where hate, deceit,

And deadly ruin wear the mask of beauty,

And draw deluded fools with shows of pleasure.

From every blush that kindles in thy cheeks,

Ten thousand little loves and graces spring

To revel in the roses.

From God derived, to God by nature joined,

We act the dictates of His mighty mind:

And though the priests are mute and temples still,

God never wants a voice to speak His will.

Guilt is the source of sorrow; ’tis the fiend,

The avenging fiend, that follows us behind

With whips and stings.

Habitual evils change not on a sudden,

But many days must pass, and many sorrows;

Conscious remorse, and anguish must be felt,

To curb desire, to break the stubborn will,

And work a second nature in the soul,

Ere virtue can resume the place she lost.

If you are wise, and prize your peace of mind,

Believe me true, nor listen to your jealousy,

Let not that devil which undoes your sex,

That curs’d curiosity seduce you

To hunt for needless secrets, which, neglected,

Shall never hurt your quiet, but once known

Shall sit upon your heart, pinch it with pain,

And banish sweet sleep forever from you.

If you would have the nuptial union last,

Let virtue be the bond that ties it fast.

It is a busy talking world,

That with licentious breath blows like the wind

As freely on the palace, as the cottage.

Let her rave,

And prophesy ten thousand thousand horrors;

I could join with her now, and bid ’em come;

They fit the present fury of my soul.

The stings of love and rage are fix’d within,

And drive me on to madness. Earthquakes, whirlwinds,

A general wreck of nature now would please me.

Malicious slander never would have leisure

To search, with prying eyes, for faults abroad,

If all, like me, consider’d their own hearts,

And wept the sorrows which they found at home.

Man, tho’ limited

By fate, may vainly think his actions free,

While all he does, was at his hour of birth,

Or by his gods, or potent stars ordain’d.

Midnight hags,

By force of potent spells, of bloody characters,

And conjurations horrible to hear,

Call fiends and spectres from the yawning deep,

And set the ministers of hell at work.

Rage is the shortest passion of our souls,

Like narrow brooks that rise with sudden showers,

It swells in haste, and falls again as soon.

Still as it ebbs, the softer thoughts flow in,

And the deceiver, love, supplies its place.

Religion’s lustre is, by native innocence

Divinely pure, and simple from all arts;

You daub and dress her like a common mistress,

The harlot of your fancies; and by adding

False beauties, which she wants not, make the world

Suspect her angel’s face is foul beneath,

And will not bear all lights.

The brave do never shun the light;

Just are their thoughts, and open are their tempers;

Truly without disguise they love and hate;

Still are they found in the fair face of day,

And heav’n and men are judges of their actions.

The joys of meeting pay the pangs of absence,

Else who could bear it?

The wise and active conquer difficulties

By daring to attempt them; sloth and folly

Shiver and shrink at sight of toil and hazard,

And make the impossibility they fear.

Think not the good,

The gentle deeds of mercy thou hast done,

Shall die forgotten all; the poor, the pris’ner,

The fatherless, the friendless, and the widow,

Who daily own the bounty of thy hand,

Shall cry to heav’n, and pull a blessing on thee.

’Tis all in vain, this rage that tears thy bosom!

Like a bird that flutters in her cage,

Thou beat’st thyself to death.

’Tis mercy! mercy!

The mark of heav’n impress’d on human kind,

Mercy, that glads the world, deals joy around;

Mercy that smooths the dreadful brow of power,

And makes dominion light; mercy that saves,

Binds up the broken heart, and heals despair.

’Tis not the stoic’s lesson got by rote,

The pomp of words, and pedant dissertation,

That can support thee in that hour of terror.

Books have taught cowards to talk nobly of it;

But when the trial comes, they start and stand aghast.

War! that in a moment

Lay’st waste the noblest part of the creation,

The boast and masterpiece of the great Maker,

That wears in vain th’ impression of his image,

Unprivileged from thee!

When our old Pleasures die,

Some new One still is nigh;

Oh! fair Variety!

Women, like summer storms, awhile are cloudy,

Burst out in thunder and impetuous showers:

But straight the sun of beauty dawns abroad,

And all the fair horizon is serene.

Your bounty’s beyond my speaking,

But though my mouth be dumb, my heart shall thank you.

Conscious remorse and anguish must be felt, to curb desire, to break the stubborn will, and work a second nature in the soul.

Great minds, like heaven, are pleased in doing good, though the ungrateful subjects of their favors are barren in return.

It wakes a glad remembrance of our youth, calls back past joys, and warms us into transport.

Lust is, of all the frailties of our nature, what most we ought to fear; the headstrong beast rushes along, impatient of the course; nor hears the rider’s call, nor feels the rein.

O death! thou gentle end of human sorrows.

Oh! wherefore doth thou soothe me with thy softness? why doth thou wind thyself about my heart, and make this separation painful to us?

That eating canker grief, with wasteful spite, preys on the rosy bloom of youth and beauty.

The birds, great Nature’s happy commoners, that haunt in woods, in meads, and flowery gardens, rifle the sweets and taste the choicest fruits.

The devious path where wanton fancy leads.

The joys of meeting pay the pangs of absence; else who could bear it?

The memory is a treasurer to whom we must give funds, if we would draw the assistance we need.

The narrow soul knows not the godlike glory of forgiving.

The waiting tears stood ready for command, and now they flow to varnish the false tale.

Titles the servile courtier’s lean reward.

Too many giddy, foolish hours are gone.

What can I pay thee for this noble usage but grateful praise? So heaven itself is paid.

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