John Conington Quotes

A woman's will Is changeful and uncertain still.

Arise from my bones, my unknown avenger.

Blest pair! if aught my verse avail, No day shall make your memory fail From off the heart of time.

Now for a heart that scorns dismay:
Now for a soul prepared.

A lethargy of sleep,
Most like to death, so calm, so deep.

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!

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.

If men and mortal arms ye slight,
Know there are gods who watch o'er right.

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

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.

While memory lasts and pulses beat,
The thought of Dido shall be sweet.

Live and be blest! 'tis sweet to feel
Fate's book is closed and under seal.
For us, alas! that volume stern
Has many another page to turn.

He who maligns an absent friend's fair fame,
Who says no word for him when others blame,
Who courts a reckless laugh by random hits,
Just for the sake of ranking among wits,
Who feigns what he ne'er saw, a secret blabs,
Beware him, Roman! that man steals or stabs!

An inferior artist's only chance of giving pleasure.

Is there, friend,' he cries, 'a spot
That knows not Troy's unhappy lot?