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Updated: June 28, 2025
All, Sir, that Heaven and Love requires, is past. Lord. Thou art a Fool, Frank, come dry thy Eyes. And receive Diana Trusty, call in my Niece. Bel. Yet, Sir, relent, be kind, and save my Soul. Trusty. Lord. No more by Heaven, if you resist my Will, I'll make a strange Example of thee, and of that Woman, whoe'er she be, that drew you to this Folly. Faith and Vows, quoth ye! Bel. Then I obey.
The conclusion had already been reached that "There is only one Being who exists: He is within this universe and yet outside this universe: whoe'er beholds all living creatures as in Him, and Him the universal spirit, as in all, thenceforth regards no creature with contempt." The language of Hindu speculation exhausts its resources in similes by which to represent personal annihilation.
But since the glorious present of to-day Is meant to grace alone the poet's lay, My claim I wave to every art beside, And rest my plea upon the Regicide. * But if, to crown the labours of my Muse, Thou, inauspicious, should'st the wreath refuse, Whoe'er attempts it in this scribbling age Shall feel the Scottish pow'rs of Crilic rage.
Mary watched the boatman leave the house, and then, turning her sorrowful eyes to the face of her hostess, she attempted feebly to rise, with the intention of going away, where she knew not. "Nay! nay! whoe'er thou be'st, thou'rt not fit to go out into the street.
"Then merry may she be, whoe'er she is; and though woe be mine, I turn not from that to Hautia; nor ever will I woo her, though she woo me till I die; though Yillah never bless my eyes." Night passed; and next morning we made preparations for leaving Mondoldo that day.
Then Aineias leapt down with shield and long spear, fearing lest perchance the Achaians might take from him the corpse; and strode over him like a lion confident in his strength, and held before him his spear and the circle of his shield, eager to slay whoe'er should come to face him, crying his terrible cry.
They both were forfeit, when I broke my Vow, Nor cou'd my Honour with thy Fame decline; Whoe'er profanes thee, injures nought of mine. This Night upon the Couch my self I'll lay, And like Franciscans, let th'ensuing Day Take care for all the Toils it brings with it; Whatever Fate arrives, I can submit. SCENE III. A Street. Enter Celinda, drest as before. Cel.
Why, what art thou darest tell me so i'th' dark? Day had betray'd thy blushes for this Boldness. Phi. Tell me who 'tis that dares capitulate? Pis. One that dares make it good. Phi. Draw then, and keep thy word. Alcan. Here's thy reward, whoe'er thou art. Phi. Hast thou no hurt? Alcan. I think not much, yet somewhere 'tis I bleed. Pis. What a dull beast am I! My Lord, is't you are fallen?
Of scenes like these, I say, who writes whoe'er can write the story? Of many a score aye, thousands, north and south, of unwrit heroes, unknown heroisms, incredible, impromptu, first-class desperations who tells? No history ever no poem sings, no music sounds, those bravest men of all those deeds.
The world I proudly wander o'er, And plume myself and sing I am a man! Whoe'er is more? Then leap on high, and spring! Religion 'twas produced this poem's fire; Perverted also? prithee, don't inquire! What mean the joyous sounds from yonder vine-clad height? What the exulting Evoe? Why glows the cheek? Whom is't that I, with pinions light, Swinging the lofty Thyrsus see?
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