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'The great Megistias' tomb you here may view, Who slew the Medes, fresh from Spercheius fords; Well the wise seer the coming death foreknew, Yet scorn'd he to forsake his Spartan lords'. The names of the 300 were likewise engraven on a pillar at Sparta.
"Oh, how I loath'd him! how I scorn'd His idiot laugh, or demon frown, His features bloated and deform'd; The jests with which he sought to drown The consciousness of sin, or storm'd, To put reproof or anger down.
The passions of men have thus placed women on thrones; and, till mankind become more reasonable, it is to be feared that women will avail themselves of the power which they attain with the least exertion, and which is the most indisputable. They will smile, yes, they will smile, though told that "In beauty's empire is no mean, And woman either slave or queen, Is quickly scorn'd when not ador'd."
He reads much; He is a great observer, and he looks Quite through the deeds of men Seldom he smiles; and smiles in such a sort As if he mocked himself, and scorn'd his spirit That could be amused to smile at any thing. The character of Swift presents great apparent contradictions.
She knew, that Carre was immoderately attached to Overbury, that he was directed by his Council in all things, and devoted to his interest. Earth has no curse like love to hatred turn'd, Nor Hell a fury like a woman scorn'd.
Few men would envy the character which Caesar gives of Cassius: He loves no play, As thou do'st, Anthony: he hears no music: Seldom he smiles; and smiles in such a sort, As if he mock'd himself, and scorn'd his spirit That could be mov'd to smile at any thing.
Who that had engaged to believe the Christian Faith, cou'd be content to see it exposed in every branch? To have their Lord and Master affronted for pretending to Save, and his Ministers scorn'd for the work he gave them to do! to hear a Moment preferr'd to the hopes of Eternity, and the Judgment to come thrown off with a Jest!
The griefs and dishonour of our noble parents, who have been eminent for virtue and piety, oh suffer them not to be regarded in this censuring world as the most unhappy of all the race of old nobility; thou art the darling child, the joy of all, the last hope left, the refuge of their sorrow, for they, alas, have had but unkind stars to influence their unadvised off-spring; no want of virtue in their education, but this last blow of fate must strike them dead; think, think of this, my child, and yet retire from ruin; haste, fly from destruction which pursues thee fast; haste, haste and save thy parents and a sister, or what is more dear, thy fame; mine has already received but too many desperate wounds, and all through my unkind lord's growing passion for thee, which was most fatally founded on my ruin, and nothing but my ruin could advance it; and when, my sister, thou hast run thy race, made thyself loathed, undone and infamous as hell, despis'd, scorn'd and abandon'd by all, lampoon'd, perhaps diseas'd; this faithless man, this cause of all will leave thee too, grow weary of thee, nauseated by use; he may perhaps consider what sins, what evils, and what inconveniencies and shames thou'st brought him to, and will not be the last shall loathe and hate thee: for though youth fancy it have a mighty race to run of pleasing vice and vanity, the course will end, the goal will be arrived to at the last, where they will sighing stand, look back, and view the length of precious time they've fool'd away; when traversed over with honour and discretion, how glorious were the journey, and with what joy the wearied traveller lies down and basks beneath the shades that end the happy course.
Come out with it, I see thy breast heave with a generous ardour, As if it scorn'd to harbour a reserve, Which stood not with its Amity to me. Could I but know my Fate, I could despise it: But when 'tis clad in Robes of Innocence, The Devil cannot 'scape it: Something Was done last night that gnaws my heart-strings; And many things the Princess too let fall, Which, Gods!
"A nightingale in a tall pine-tree Broke its heart in a song for me, Singing, with moonbeams around it spread, It fluttered, and fell at my threshold, dead; Oh nightingale in the tall pine-tree, Why did you break your heart for me? "A lover of ladies, bold and free, Challenged the world to a fight for me, But I scorn'd his love in a foolish pride, And, sword in hand, he fighting died!
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