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Pray so ; and, for the ordering your affairs,
To sing them too : When you do dance, I wish you
A wave o'the sea, that you might ever do
Nothing but that ; move still, still so,
And own no other function : each your doing,
So singular in each particular,
Crowns what you are doing in the present deeds,
That all your acts are queens.
Ibid. Winter's Tale
O, hear me breathe my
Before this ancient Sir, who, it should seem,
Hath some time lov’d: I take thy hand ; this hand,
As soft as dove's down, and as white as it ;
Or Ethiopian's tooth, or the fann'd snow,
That's bolted by the northern blasts twice o'er.
Shakespeare's Winter's Tale.
Ay, Protheus, but that life is alter'd now ;
I have done penance for contemning Love,
Whose high imperious thoughts have punish'd me
With bitter fasts, with penitential groans,
With nightly tears, and daily heart-sore sighs :
of my contempt of Love,
Love hath chas'd sleep from my enthralled eyes,
And made them watchers of mine own heart's sorrow.
O gentle Protheus, Love's a mighty lord,
And hath so humbled me, as I confess
There is no woe to his correction ;
Nor to his service, any joy on earth ;
Now no discourse except it be of Love ;
Now can I break my fast, dine, sup, and sleep,
Upon the very simple name of Love.
Shakespeare's Two Gent. of Verona.
Pity is benevolence to the afflicted. It is a mixture of love for an object that suffers, and a grief that we are not able to remove those sufferings. It shows itself in a compassionate tenderness of voice, a feeling of pain in the countenance, and a gentle raising and falling of the hands and eyes, as if mourning
over the unhappy object. The mouth is open, the eye-brows are drawn down, and the features contracted or drawn together. See p. 314, 315.
Pity in plaintive narration.
As in a theatre the eyes
After a well.grac'd actor leaves the stage,
Are idly bent on him that enters next,
Thinking his prattle to be tedious,
Even so, or with much more contempt, men's eyes
Did scowl on Richard ; no man cry'd God save him ;
No joyful tongue gave him his welcome home :
But dust was thrown upon his sacred head ;
Which with such gentle sorrow he shook off-
His face still combating with tears and smiles,
The badges of his grief and patience,
That had not God, for some strong purpose, steel'd
The hearts of men, they must perforce have melted,
And barbarism itself have pitied him.
But heaven hath a hand in those events ;.
To whose high will we bound our calm contents.
Shakespeare's Rich. II.
Pity for falling greatness.
Ah, Richard ! with eyes of heavy mind,
I see thy glory like a shooting star,
Fall to the base earth, from the firmament !
Thy sun sits weeping in the lowly west,
Witnessing storms to come, woe and unrest ;
Thy friends are fled, to wait upon thy foes,
And crossly to thy good all fortune goes.
Pity for a departed Friend. Alas! Poor Yorick! I knew him, Horatio ; a fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy : he hath borne me on his back a thousand times : and now how abhorred in my imagination it is ; my gorge rises at it. Here hung those lips that I have kissed, I know not how oft. Where be your gibes now? Your gambols? Your songs? Your flashes of merriment, that were wont to set the table on a roar ? Not one now to mock your own grinning ? Quite chop-fallen ? you to my lady's chamber, and tell her, et her paint an inch thick, to this favour she must come ; make her laugh at that.
Pity for the object beloved.
Poor lord ! is 't I
That chase thee from thy country, and expose
Those tender limbs of thine to the event
Of the none-sparing war ? and is it I
That drive thee from the sportive court, where thou
Wast shot at with fair eyes, to be the mark
Of smoky muskets? O you leaden messengers,
That ride upon the violent speed of fire,
Fly with false aim : move the still-piercing air,
That sings with piercing, do not touch my lord !
Whoever shoots at him, I set him there ;
Whoever charges on his forward breast,
I am the cat that do hold him to it ;
And, though I kill him not, I am the cause
His death was so effected : better 'twere
I met the raven lion when he roar'd
With sharp constraint of hunger ; better 'twere
That all the miseries which nature owes,
Were mine at once: No, come thou home, Rove:lon,
Whence honour but of danger wins a scar ;
As oft it loses all; I will be gone :
My being here it is, that holds thee hence ;
Shall I stay here to do't? no, no, although
The air of paradise did fan the house,
And angels offic'd all ! I will be gone.
Shakespeare's All's Well, &c.
Pity for youth over-watched.
Luc. I have slept, my lord, already.
Bru. It was well done ; and thou shalt sleep again ;
I shall not hold thee long : if I do live,
I will be good to thee.
| Musick, and a song.
This is a sleepy tune ; O murd'rous slumber !
Lay'st thou thy leaden mace upon my boy,
That plays thee musick ?--Gentle knave, good night ;
I will not do thee so much wrong to wake thee.
If thou dost nod, thou break'st thy instrument ;
I'll take it from thee, and, good boy, good night!
Ibid. Jul. Cæs.
Hope is a mixture of desire and joy, agitating the mind, and anticipating its enjoyment. It erects and and brightens the countenance, spreads the arms, with the hands open, as to receive the object of its wishes : the voice is plaintive, and inclining to cagerness ; the breath drawn inwards more forcibly than usual, in order to express our desires the more strongly, and our earnest expectation of receiving the object of them.
Collins, in his Ode on the Passions, gives us a beautiful picture of Hope :
But thou, O Hope, with eyes so fair,
What was thy delighted measure ?
Still it whisper'd promis'd pleasure,
And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail ;
Still would her touch the strain prolong,
And from the rocks, the woods, the vale,
She callid on echo still through all the song ;
And where her sweetest theme she chose,
A soft responsive voice was heard at every close,
And Hope, enchanted, smil'd, and wav'd her golden hair.
Hope from approaching Nuptials.
Now, fair Hippolita, our nuptial hour
Draws on apace, four happy days brings in
Another moon; but oh ! methinks, how slow
This old moon wanes ! she lingers my desires,
Like to a step dame, or a dowager,
Long-withering out a young man's revenue.
Shakesp. Midsum. Night's Dream.
Hope of good tidings.
O Hope, sweet flatterer, whose delusive touch
Sheds on afflicted minds the balm of comfort ;
Relieves the load of poverty ; sustains
The captive bending with the weight of bonds,
And smooths the pillow of disease and pain ;
Send back th’exploring messenger with joy,
And let me hail thee from that friendly grove.
HATRED, AVERSION. When, by frequent reflection on a disagreeable object, our disapprobation of it is attended with a disinclination of mind towards it, it is called hatred. When our hatred and disapprobation of any object are accompanied with a painful sensation upon the apprehension of its presence or approach, there follows an inclination to avoid it, called aversion.
Hatred, or aversion, draws back the body as to avoid the hated object ; the hands at the same time thrown out spread, as if to keep it off. The face is turned away from that side towards which the hands are thrown out; the eyes looking angrily, and obliquely the same way the hands are directed; the eye-brows are contracted, the upper lip disdainfully drawn up, and the teeth set ; the pitch of the voice is low, but loud and harsh, the tone chiding, unequal, surly, and vehement, the sentences are short and abrupt.
A description and example of this passion from Shakespeare is given in the introduction to these examples, p. 313. To these we shall add a few others :
Hatred cursing the object hated.
Poison be their drink,
Gall, worse than gall, the daintiest meat they taste ;
Their sweetest shade a grove of cypress trees,
Their sweetest prospects murd'ring basilisks,
Their softest touch as smart as lizard's stings,
Their musick frightful as the serpent's hiss,
And boding screech-owls make the concert full ;
All the foul terrours of dark-seated hell. Shakesp. Hen. VI.
This seems imitated by Dr. Young.
Why get thee gone, horrour and night go with thee,
Sisters of Acheron, go hand in hand,
Go dance about the bow'r and close them in ;
And tell them that I sent you to salute them.
Profane the ground, and for th' ambrosial rose
And breath of jessamin, let hemlock blacken,
And deadly night-shade poison all the air :
For the sweet nightingale may ravens croak,
Toads pant, and adders rustle through the leaves :
May serpents, winding up the trees,