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Now keener anguish rack'd the father's mind, Reft of his son, a murderer of his kind; His guilty sword distained with filial gore, He beat his burning breast, his hair he tore; The breathless corse before his shuddering view, A shower of ashes o'er his head he threw; "In my old age," he cried, "what have I done? Why have I slain my son, my innocent son!
The arrows with which Hercules presented him were then no consolation to him, when The viper's bite, impregnating his veins With poison, rack'd him with its bitter pains. And therefore he cries out, desiring help, and wishing to die, Oh that some friendly hand its aid would lend, My body from this rock's vast height to send Into the briny deep!
But there must be such Cellars as I speak of, which inclose a temperate Air, to ripen Drink in; the constant temperate Air digests and softens these Malt Liquors, so that they drink smooth as Oil; but in the Cellars which are unequal, by letting in Heats and Colds, the Drink is subject to grow stale and sharp: For this reason it is, that Drink, which is brew'd for a long Voyage at Sea, should be perfectly ripe and fine before it is exported, for when it has had sufficient time to digest in the Cask, and is rack'd from the Bottom or Lee, it will bear carriage without injury.
She was so uneasie at what she had heard, that she thought it convenient to steal out of the presence and retire to her Closet, to bemoan her unhappy helpless Condition. Our Two Cavalier-Lovers had rack'd their Invention till it was quite disabled, and could not make discovery of one Contrivance more for their Relief.
The thought of a beloved son condemned to labor labor that would break down a man struggling from day to day under the hard rule of a soulless gold-worshipper; the knowledge that years must pass thus; the sickening idea of her own poverty, and of living mainly on the grudged charity of neighbors thoughts, too, of former happy days these rack'd the widow's heart, and made her bed a sleepless one without repose.
Now I am old and grey, My bones are rack'd with pain, And time speeds fast away But why should I complain? There are joys in life's young morn That dwell not with the old. Like the flowers the wind hath torn, From the strem, all bleak and cold. The weary heart may mourn O'er the wither'd hopes of youth, But the flowers so rudely shorn Still leave the seeds of truth.
Then I began, "If, madam, you design to be more severe with us, be yet so kind as to dispatch it quickly; for whate'er our offence be, it is not so hainous that we ought to be rack'd to death for it": Upon which her woman, whose name was Psyche, spread a coverlet on the floor, Sollicitavit inguina mea mille iam mortibus frigida.
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