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And dost thou now fall over to my foes?
Thou wear a lion's hide! doff it for shame,
And hang a calf's skin on those recreant limbs.

King Job


Fear is a mixture of aversion and sorrow, discomposing and debilitating the mind upon the approach or anticipation of evil. When this is attended with surprise and much discomposure, it grows into terrour and consternation.

Fear, violent and sudden, opens wide the eyes and mouth, shortens the nose, gives the countenance an air of wildness, covers it with deadly paleness, draws back the elbows parallel with the sides, lifts up the open hands, with the fingers spread, to the height of the breast, at some distance before it, so as to shield it from the dreadful object. One foot is drawn back behind the other, so that the body seems shrinking from the danger, and putting itself in a posture for flight. The heart beats violently, the breath is quick and short, and the whole body is thrown into a general tremour.

The voice is weak and trembling, the sentences are short, and the meaning confused and incoherent.

Terrour before dreadful Actions described.

Between the acting of a dreadful thing
And the first motion, all the interim is
Like a phantasma, or a hideous dream ;
The genius, and the mortal instruments,
Are then in council, and the state of man,
Like to a little kingdom, suffers then
The nature of an insurrection. Shakespeare's Jul. Caso

Terrour of Evening and Night described.

-Light thickens, and the crow
Makes wing to the rooky wood;
Good things of day begin to droop and drowse ;
While night's black agents to their prey

do rouse.

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Thou marvell'st at my words: but hold thee still
Things, bad begun, make strong themselves by ill.

Ibid. Macbeth.

Fear from a dreadful Object.

Angels and ministers of grace defend us
Be thou a spirit of health, or goblin damn'd,
Bring with thee airs from heav'n, or blasts from hell,
Be thy intents wicked or charitable,
Thou com’st in such a questionable shape
That I will speak to thee.
Save me, and hover o'er me with your wings,
You heav'nly guards !--what would your gracious figure ?

Ibid. Hamlet.

Horrour at a dreadful Apparition.

How ill this taper burns! ha! who comes here?
I think it is the weakness of my eyes,
That shapes this monstrous apparition-
It comes upon me-Art thou

any thing?
Art thou some God, some angel, or some devil,
That mak'st my blood cold, and my hair to start,
Speak to me, what thou art.

Ibid. Julius Cæsar.

Terrour from committing Murder.

Mac. I've done the deed-didst not thou hear a noise ?

Lady. I heard the owl scream, and the crickets cry.
Did you not speak?

Mac. When ?
Lady. Now,
Mac. As I descended ?
Lady. Ay.
Mac. Hark !--who lies i’ th' second chamber?
Lady. Donalbain.
Mac. This is a sorry sight.
Lady. A foolish thought to say a sorry sight.
Mać. There's one did laugh in his sleep, and one cry'd

murder !
That they did wake each other ; I stood and heard them :
But they did say their pray’rs, and address'd them
Again to sleep.

Shakespeare's Macbeth, Fear of being discovered in Murder.

Alas, I am afraid they have awak’d,
And 'tis not done ; th' attempt, and not the deed,
Confounds us-Hark! I laid the daggers ready,
He could not miss them. Had he not resembled
My father as he slept, I had done it.

Shakespeare's Macbeth.


Sorrow is a painful depression of spirit, upon the deprivation of good, or arrival of evil ; when it is silent and thoughtful, it is sadness ; when long indulged, so as to prey upon and possess the mind, it becomes habitual, and grows into melancholy; when tossed by hopes and fears, it is distraction ; when these are swallowed up by it, it settles into despair.

In moderate sorrow, the countenance is dejected, the eyes are cast downward, the arms hang loose, sometimes a little raised, suddenly to fall again ; the hands open, the fingers spread, and the voice

plaintive, frequently interrupted with sighs. But when this passion is in excess, it distorts the countenance, as if in agonies of pain ; it raises the voice to the loudest complainings, and sometimes even to cries and shrieks; it wrings the hands, beats the head and breast, tears the hair, and throws itself on the ground; and, like other passions, in excess, seems to border on frenzy.


Anth. In sooth, I know not why I am so sad,
It wearies me; you say it wearies you :
But how I caught it, found it, or came by it,
What stuff 'tis made of, whereof it is born,
I am to learn.
And such a want-wit sadness makes of me,
That I have much ado to know myself.

Gra. You look not well, signor Anthonio ;
You have too much respect upon the world :
They lose it that do buy it with much care ;

Believe me, you are marvellously chang'd.

Anth. I hold the world but as the world, Gratiano ; A stage, where every one must play his part ; And mine's a sad one. Shakespeare's Merchant of Venice.

Deep Melancholy described.

She never told her love,
But let concealment, like a worm i' th' bud,
Feed on her damask cheek. She pin'd in thought,
And with a green and yellow melancholy
She sat like Patience on a monument
Smiling at Grief.

Ibid. Twelfth Night.

Pensive foreboding.

My mother had a maid call'd Barbara,
She was in love ; and he she lov'd prov'd mad,
And did forsake her : she had a song of willow,
An old thing 'twas, but it express'd her fortune,
And she dy'd singing it: That song to night


my mind, I have much to do But to go hang my head all o' one side, And sing it like poor Barbara.

Ibid. Othello,

Will not go

Silent Grief

Seems, madam ! nay, it is : I know not seems,
"Tis not alone my inky cloak, good mother,
Nor customary suits of solemn black,
Nor windy suspiration of forc'd breath;
No, nor the fruitful river in the eye,
Nor the dejected 'haviour of the visage,
Together with all forms, modes, shows of grief
That can denote me truly : These indeed seem,
For they are actions that a man might play ;
But I have that within which passeth show,
These but the trappings and the fruits of woe.

Ibid, Hamlet.

Inward Sorrow.

Say that again. The shadow of my sorrow! H

let's see in 'Tis very true, my grief lies all within ; And these external manners of lament

Are merely shadows to the unseen grief
That swells with silence in my tortured soul ;
There lies the substance : and I thank thee, king,
For thy great bounty, that not only giv'st
Me cause to wail, but teachest me the way
How to lament the cause. I'll beg one boon,
And then be gone, and trouble you no more.

Ibid. Rich. II.

Sorrow forgetful of its Intentions. Yet one word more ;-Grief boundeth where it falls, Not with the empty hollowness, but weight ; I take my leave before I have begun, For sorrow ends not when it seemeth done. Commend me to my brother, Edmund York, Lo, this is all :-nay, yet depart not so ; Though this be all, do not so quickly go, I shall remember more. Bid him-Oh, what? With all good speed at Flashy visit me. Alack, and what shall good old York there see, But empty lodgings, and unfurnish'd walls, Unpeopled offices, untrodden stones ? And what hear there for welcome but my groans ? Therefore commend me; let him not come there To seek out sorrow that dwells every where ; Desolate, desolate, will I hence, and die ; The last leave of thee takes my weeping eye.

Ibid. Rich. II.

Grief deploring loss of Happiness.
I had been happy, if the general camp,
Pioneers and all, had wrong'd my love,
So had I nothing known: O now for ever,
Farewell the tranquil mind ; farewell content,
Farewell the plumed troop and the big war
That make ambition virtue! O farewell,
Farewell the neighing steed, and the shrill trump,
The spirit-stirring drum, the ear piercing fife,
The royal banner, and all quality,
Pride, pomp, and circumstance of glorious war!
Farewell ! Othello's occupation's gone.

Ibid. Othello.
Grief approaching to Madness.
Pand. Lady, you utter madness, and not sorrow.
Const. Thou art unholy to belie me so ;

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