John Conington

This to a tyrant master sold
His native land for cursed gold.

Blank verse really deserving the name I believe to be impossible except to one or two eminent writers in a generation.

A woman's will Is changeful and uncertain still.

You lose no time in taking out a fly,
Or straw, it may be, that torments your eye;
Why, when a thing devours your mind, adjourn
Till this day year all thought of the concern?
Come now, have courage to be wise: begin:
You're halfway over when you once plunge in:
He who puts off the time for mending, stands
A clodpoll by the stream with folded hands,
Waiting till all the water be gone past;
But it runs on, and will, while time shall last.

There are few writers whose text is in so satisfactory a state as Virgil's.

Bear up, and live for happier days.

From me you fly! Ah! let me crave,
By these poor tears, that hand you gave—
Since, parting with my woman's pride,
My madness leaves me nought beside—
By that our wedlock, by the rite
Which, but begun, could yet unite,
If e'er my kindness held you bound,
If e'er in my joy you found,
Look on this falling house, and still,
If prayer can touch you, change your will.

My life is lived, and I have played
The part that Fortune gave.

Huge, awful, hideous, ghastly, blind.

Let Rome be glorious on the earth,
The centre of Italian worth.

Each has his destined time: a span
Is all the heritage of man:
'Tis virtue's part by deeds of praise
To lengthen fame through after days.

Comrades and friends! for ours is strength
Has brooked the test of woes;
O worse-scarred hearts! these wounds at length
The Gods will heal, like those.

They can because they think they can.

I heard, fear-stricken and amazed, My speech tongue-tied, my hair upraised.

She calls it marriage now; such name
She chooses to conceal her shame.