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The Greeks are ftrong, and skilful to their strength, Fierce to their skill, and to their fiercenefs valiant. But I am weaker than a woman's tear, Tamer than fleep, fonder than ignorance; Lefs valiant than the virgin in the night, And skillefs as unpractis'd infancy.

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This is the ode:


O Pandarus! I tell thee, Pandarus

When I do tell thee, there my hopes lie drown'd,
Reply not, in how many fathoms deep,
They lie indrench'd. I tell thee, I am mad
In Creffid's love. Thou anfwer'ft, fhe is fair;
Pour'ft in the open ulcer of my heart,
Her eyes, her hair, her cheek, her gait, her voice;
Handleft in thy difcourfe. -O that (2) her hand!


-Ει θ' εαυτον
Αφηκεν εις Κελεμνον.
Μέσω δε καρδίας με
Έδυνε και μ' ελυσε.
Ματην δ' εχω BOEINY
Τι γωρ βαλωμεθ' έξω,



Deinde feipfum projecit in modum teli: mediufque cordis mei penetravit & me folvit. Fruftra itaque habeo fcutum: quid enim muniamur extra, bello intus me exercente. Mr. Upton, fpeaking of the feveral translations of the laft line but one, adds "Now I will fet Shakespear's translation against them all: Why Should I war without. Ti yap Barwμel' εw-For this is the meaning of the phrafe, quid hoftem petam, vel quid hoftem ferire aggred'ar extra; cum hoftis intus eft? &c. See remarks on three plays of Ben Jonfon, p. 28.

(2) Her hand, &c.] In the Midsummer Night's Dream, fpeaking of a white hand, he says;、

That pure congealed white high Taurus' fnow,
Fann'd with the eastern wind, turns to a crow
When thou hold'ft up thy hand.

A. S. 6.

I don't know what to make of the words and fpirit of senfe, nor do any of the critics fatisfy me: the Oxford editor reads,

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In whofe comparison, all whites are ink,
Writing their own reproach: to whose soft seizure
The cygnet's down is harfh, and spirit of sense
Hard as the palm of ploughman. This thou tell'ft me;
(As true thou tell'ft me) when I fay, I love her:
But faying thus, instead of oil and balm,
Thou lay'ft in every gash that love hath given me
The knife that made it. 1

SCENE V. Success not equal to our Hopes.

The ample propofition that hope makes
In all defigns begun on earth below,
Fails in the promis'd largenefs: checks and difafters.
Grow in the veins of action, highest rear'd;
As knots, by the conflux of meeting fap,
Infect the found pine, and divert his grain
Tortive and errant from his courfe of growth.

On Degree.

Take but degree away; untune that string,
And hark what difcord follows; each thing meets
In mere oppugnancy. The bounded waters
Would lift their bofoms higher than the shores,
And make a sop of all this folid globe:
Strength would be lord of imbecillity,
And the rude fon would strike his father dead :
Force would be right; or rather, right and wrong
(Between whofe endless jar juftice (3) refides)


To th' spirit of fenfe.

And (fpite of fenfe,)

Mr. Warburton, Neither of which appear to me as from the hand of Shakespear: whether by the fpirit of fenfe, he means the fenfe of touching, I cannot tell; that feems the most probable, "to the feizure of her hand the down of the cygnet is harth, and its spirit of fenfe [the foft and delicate sense, its touch gives us] hard as the ploughman's palm."

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(3) Refides.] The thought here is beautiful and fublime: Right and Wrong are fuppofed as enemies, who are perpetually


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Would lose their names, and fo would justice too.
Then every thing includes itself in power;
Power into will, will into appetite;
And appetite (an univerfal wolf,
So doubly feconded with will and power)
Must make perforce an univerfal prey,
And last, eat up itself.

Conduct in War fuperior to Action.
The still and mental parts,

That do contrive how many hands shall strike,
When fitness calls them on, and know by measure
Of their obfervant toil the enemies' weight;
Why, this hath not a finger's dignity;
They call this bed-work mapp'ry, closet war:
So that the ram that batters down the wall,
For the great fwing and rudeness of his poize,
They place before his hand that made the engine;
Or those, that with the fineness of their fouls
By reafon guide his execution.

Adverfity the Trial of Man,

-Why then, you princes,
you with cheeks abafh'd behold our works?
And think them shame, which are indeed, nought else
But the protractive trials of great Jove,
To find perfiftive constancy in man.?


at war, between whom Juftice hath her place of refidence, and
fits as an umpire; for 'tis the endless jar of right and wrong,
that only gives occafion for the interpofition of juftice. Mr. War
burton hath, in this place, been too fevere on poor Theobald, the
ritic (as he calls him), for dropping a flight remark, which,
were it not defenfible, should rather be excus'd than cenfur'd;
and introduced an alteration of his own, which an ill-natured
remarker might poffibly find pleasure in retorting upon him. But
as the only bufinefs of a commentator is to do juftice to his au-
thor, it feems to me highly improper to stuff one's obfervations
with the gall of private animofities.

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The fineness of which metal is not found
In fortune's love; for then, the bold and coward,
The wife and fool, the artist and unread,
The hard and foft, feem all affin'd, and kin ;
But in the wind and tempeft of her frown,
Diftinction with a broad and pow'rful fan,
Puffing at all, winnows the light away;
And what hath mafs, or matter by itself,
Lies rich in virtue, and unmingled.

Achilles defcribed by Ulyffes.

The great Achilles, whom opinion crowns
The finew and the fore-hand of our host,
Having his ear full of his airy fame,
Grows dainty of his worth, and in his tent
Lies mocking our defigns. With him, Patrocles,
Upon a lazy bed, the live long day
Breaks fcurril jests;

And with ridiculous and aukward action
(Which, flanderer, he imitation calls)

He pageants us. Sometimes, great Agamemnon,
Thy toplefs deputation he puts on;
And like a ftrutting player, (whofe conceit
Lies in his ham-ftring, and doth think it rich-
To hear the wooden dialogue and found
"Twixt his stretch'd footing and the fcaffoldage)
Such to-be-pitied, and o'er-wrested seeming,
He acts thy greatnefs in and when he speaks,
'Tis like a chime a mending; with terms unfquar'd,
Which, from the tongue of roaring Typhon dropt,
Would feem hyperboles. At this fufty stuff
The large Achilles, on his preft bed lolling,
From his deep cheft laughs out a loud applause :
Cries-excellent!-'tis Agamemnon just-

Now play me Neftor-hum, and stroke thy beard,
As he, being drest to fome oration.
That's done as near as the extremeft ends


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Of parallels; as like as Vulcan and his wife;
Yet good Achilles ftill cries, excellent!
"Tis Neftor right! now play with me, Patroclus,
Arming to answer in a night-alarm:
And then, forfooth, the faint defects of age
Must be the scene of mirth, to cough and fpit,
And with a palfy fumbling on his gorget,
Shake in and out the rivet-and at this sport,
Sir Valour dies; cries, "O!-enough, Patroclus-
"Or give me ribs of fteel, I fhall split all
"In pleasure of my fpleen". And, in this fashion,
All our abilities, gifts, natures, shapes,
Severals and generals of grace exact,
Atchievements, plots, orders, preventions,
Excitements to the field, or fpeech for truce,
Succefs, or lofs, what is, or is not, serves
As stuff for these two to make paradoxes.



I afk, that I might waken reverence, And bid the cheek be ready with a blush Modeft as morning, when the coldly eyes The youthful Phabus.

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The wound of peace is furety,

Surety fecure; but modest doubt is call'd
'The beacon of the wife; the tent that fearches
To th' bottom of the worst,

SCENE IV. Pleafure and Revenge.
Pleasure and revenge

Have ears more deaf than adders, to the voice
Of any true decifion.


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