John Conington Quotes

Too cruel, lady, is the pain,
You bid me thus revive again.

No, trust the Muse: she opes the good man's grave,
And lifts him to the gods.

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.

Let hopes and sorrows, fears and angers be,
And think each day that dawns the last you'll see;
For so the hour that greets you unforeseen
Will bring with it enjoyment twice as keen.

May Heaven, if virtue claim its thought,
If justice yet avail for aught; Heaven, and the sense of conscious right, With worthier meed your acts requite!

A woman's will Is changeful and uncertain still.

Bear up, and live for happier days.

Fear proves a base-born soul.

They reach the realms of tranquil bliss. Green spaces folded in with trees,
A paradise of pleasances.

A wet summer and a fine winter should be the farmer's prayer.

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.

Ah son! compel me not to speak
The sorrows of our race!
That youth the Fates but just display
To earth, nor let him longer stay:
With gifts like these for aye to hold,
Rome's heart had e'en been overbold.
Ah! what a groan from Mars's plain
Shall o'er the city sound!
How wilt thou gaze on that long train,
Old Tiber, rolling to the main
Beside his new-raised mound!
No youth of Ilium's seed inspires
With hope as fair his Latian sires:
Nor Rome shall dandle on her knee
A nursling so adored as he.
O piety! O ancient faith!
O hand untamed in battle scathe!
No foe had lived before his sword,
Stemmed he on foot the war's red tide
Or with relentless rowel gored
His foaming charger's side.
Dear child of pity! shouldst thou burst
The dungeon-bars of Fate accurst,
Our own Marcellus thou!

They can because they think they can.

Huge, awful, hideous, ghastly, blind.

Why reel I thus, confused and blind?
What madness mars my sober mind?