Christopher Pitt Quotes

Nor would I scruple, with a due regard, To read sometimes a rude unpolished bard, Among whose labours I may find a line Which from unsightly rust I may refine, And, with a better grace, adopt it into mine.

Poor pitied youth! ... Bring fragrant flowers, the whitest lilies bring, With all the purple beauties of the spring; These gifts at least, these honours I'll bestow On the dear youth, to please his shade below.

I proved unfaithful to my former spouse,
And now I reap the fruits of broken vows!

Be sure from nature never to depart; To copy nature is the task of art. The noblest poets own her sovereign sway, And ever follow where she leads the way.

Smooth lies the road to Pluto's gloomy shade, And hell's black gates for ever stand displayed, But 'tis a long unconquerable pain, To climb to these ethereal realms again.

Ah, mighty Queen! you urge me to disclose,
And feel, once more, unutterable woes.

But oh! may Earth her dreadful gulf display,
And gaping snatch me from the golden day;
May I be hurled, by Heaven's almighty fire,
Transfixed with thunder, and involved in fire,
Down to the shades of Hell, from realms of light,
The deep, deep shades of everlasting night.

The shrill echoes ring amidst the skies.

If some grave sire appears, amid the strife, In morals strict, and innocence of life, All stand attentive, while the sage controuls Their wrath, and calms the tempest of their souls.

A mighty tree, that bears a golden bough.

Thrice round her neck my eager arms I threw;
Thrice from my empty arms the phantom flew,
Swift as the wind, with momentary flight,
Swift as a fleeting vision of the night.

Ye subterranean gods! whose awful sway
The gliding ghosts and silent shades obey:
O Chaos, hear! and Phlegethon profound!
Whose solemn empire stretches wide around!
Give me, ye great tremendous powers! to tell
Of scenes and wonders in the depths of Hell;
Give me your mighty secrets to display
From those black realms of darkness to the day.

Now on a towering arch of waves we rise,
Heaved on the bounding billows, to the skies.
Then, as the roaring surge retreating fell,
We shoot down headlong to the depths of hell.

Be this your nobler praise in times to come,
These your imperial arts, ye sons of Rome!
O'er distant realms to stretch your awful sway,
To bid those nations tremble and obey;
To crush the proud, the suppliant foe to rear,
To give mankind a peace, or shake the world with war.

To all, proportioned terms he must dispense, And make the sound a picture of the sense.