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Updated: June 1, 2025
I have a grievous wound; my hand is aching with pain, there is no staunching the blood, and my whole arm drags by reason of my hurt, so that I cannot grasp my sword nor go among my foes and fight them, thou our prince, Jove's son Sarpedon, is slain.
They appear at Jove's throne and in the courts of the grim king, and quicken the terrors of wretched men whensoever the lord of heaven deals sicknesses and dreadful death, or sends terror of war upon guilty cities. She wings her way, and darts in a whirlwind to earth.
With father's death, and mother's guilty shame, With Jove's disdain at such a rival's feed: The wretch compel'd, a runegate became, And learn'd what ill, a miser-state did breed, To lye, to steal, to prie, and to accuse, Nought in himself, each other to abuse. Was bred a student in Cambridge, but there is no account extant of his family.
Nevertheless I will readily give him such advice, in all good faith, as will be likely to bring him safely to his own country." "Then send him away," said Mercury, "or Jove will be angry with you and punish you". On this he took his leave, and Calypso went out to look for Ulysses, for she had heard Jove's message.
Each shell which they sent across the dunes was like one of Jove's thunderbolts, and made one's body and soul quake with the agony of its noise. The vibration was so great that it made my skull ache as though it had been hammered. Long afterwards I found myself trembling with those waves of vibrating sounds.
So small a gentleman; and he feels, dismally though with heroism, that he has got the axis of the world on his shoulder. Poor Majesty! His eyes, proud as Jove's, are nothing like so perspicacious; a pair of the poorest eyes: and he has to scan with them, and unriddle under pain of death, such a waste of insoluble intricacies, troubles and world-perils as seldom was, even in Dreams.
"I am not sick. For a moment fear outwitted me, a Fabian. You must promise me not to be afraid, whatever happens. Is it cruel to warn you of what may never come to you? But our days are troubled. Jove's thunderstorm has broken upon us. Your husband is among the lofty. It is only the obscure who are sure of escaping the lightning. Send for me, if you need me. Remember whose blood is in you.
And, Jove's thunder, the lady to whom this plotted murder was to have been sent, is doubtless the mother of the unfortunate marquis, whom the Spanish assassin slew." "Yes, Herr Van Hout," said Belotti, "I can confirm your supposition. The marquise was the wife of the man, who broke his plighted faith to the young Fraulein Van Hoogstraten.
It is this rare union that gives such voluptuous dignity and touching purity to Milton's delineation of the female character: Methought I saw my late espoused saint Brought to me like Alcestis from the grave, Whom Jove's great son to her glad husband gave, Rescued from death by force, though pale and faint.
To delight and to persuade requires time and great command of language; and to leave a sting in the minds of the audience is an effect not to be expected from an orator who merely pinks, but from him, and him only, who thrusts in. Another comic poet,24 speaking of the same orator, says: "His mighty words like Jove's own thunder roll; Greece hears, and trembles to her inmost soul."
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