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Ira furor brevis est: animum rege; qui, nisi paret, Imperat: hunc fraenis, hunc tu compesce catena. Epist. I. ii. Anger's a fitful madness: rein thy mind, Subdue the tyrant, and in fetters bind, Or be thyself the slave. The next treatise is on Consolation, addressed to his mother, Helvia, and was written during his exile.
'She'll come back, Ed'ard, when the anger's overpast. 'The anger of good people is never overpast, Hazel. 'See, I'll write her a letter, Ed'ard, and I'll say I'm a wicked girl, and she's to teach me better ways. She'll come like Foxy for bones, Ed'ard. Comfort stole into Edward's heart. 'And see, my dear, I'll send his baby to him, and maybe, after She stumbled into silence. 'What, Hazel?
I found him a present help in the time of need, and the captain's fury began to subside as the night approached: but I found, "That he who cannot stem his anger's tide Doth a wild horse without a bridle ride." The next morning we discovered that the vessel which had caused such a fury in the captain was an English sloop.
Is the husbandman of valour; his sword is his plough, which honour and aqua vita, two fiery-metalled jades, are ever drawing. A younger brother best becomes arms, an elder the thanks for them. Every heat makes him a harvest, and discontents abroad are his sowers. He is actively his prince's, but passively his anger's servant.
She holds out to him, not one, but two hands. His whole face changes; a gladness, that has in it something of heaven, fills his eyes. Taking the little trembling hands softly in his own, he lays them on his beating heart. For a moment only, then he lets them fall; and then, before this divine joy has quite left him, he finds himself, once more alone. "What sudden anger's this?
Sweet, it was saucy LOVE, not humble I. But no 'scuse serves; she makes her wrath appear In beauty's throne see now, who dares come near Those scarlet judges, threat'ning bloody pain? O heav'nly Fool, thy most kiss-worthy face Anger invests with such a lovely grace, That anger's self I needs must kiss again.
I've a bad memory. Isa. And will you let me die? Guil. I know nothing of the matter. Isa. Oh Heavens! and shall I be no Viscountess? Guil. Isa. Ah, hold! your Anger's just, I must confess: yet pardon the frailty of my Sex's vanity; behold my Tears that sue for pity to you. Guil. My rage dissolves. Isa. Guil.
He stood some dread was on his face, Soon hatred settled in its place: It rose not with the reddening flush Of transient anger's hasty blush, But pale as marble o'er the tomb, Whose ghastly whiteness aids its gloom. Robert Stevens returned home, his mind filled with strange, wild thoughts. It was a lovely evening in early spring.
Men have committed murder for jealousy's sake, and anger's sake, and hatred's sake, and selfishness' sake, and spiritual pride's sake; but no man that ever I heard of, ever committed a diabolical murder for sweet charity's sake. Mere self-interest, then, if no better motive can be enlisted, should, especially with high-tempered men, prompt all beings to charity and philanthropy.
An' the man I was fule enough to take in his dotage be worst of all." "Forget about these things. Anger's bad for you." "Forget! Well, so I will forget, when I ve told 'e. I had the young man what does my business, since old Ford died, awver here last week, an' what there is will be yourn every stiver yourn.
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