Flatt'ry, the food of courts! that I may rock him,
And lull him in down of his desires.
The firmest purpose of a woman's heart
To well-tim'd, artful flattery may yield.
There are, who to my person pay their court;
I cough like Horace, and, though lean, am short
Ammon's great son one shoulder had too high,
Beaumont's Rolla. Such Ovid's nose, and, sir! you have an eye!
Go on, obliging creature, make me see,
All that disgrac'd my betters, met in me;
Say, for my comfort, languishing in bed,
Just so immortal Maro held his head;
And when I die, be sure you let me know,
Great Homer died three thousand years ago.
Pope's Epistle to Dr. Arbuthnot
Parent of wicked, bane of honest deeds,
Pernicious flattery! thy malignant seeds,
In an ill hour, and by a fatal hand,
Sadly diffus'd o'er virtue's gleby land,
With rising pride amidst the corn appear,
And choke the hopes and harvest of the year.
Prior's Soloman.
No flattery, boy! an honest man can't live by 't:
It is a little sneaking art, which knaves
Use to cajole and soften fools withal.
If thou hast flatt'ry in thy nature, out with 't;
Or send it to a court, for there 't will thrive.
Otway's Orphan.
Let me be grateful; but let far from me
Be fawning cringe, and false dissembling look,
And servile flattery, that harbours oft
In courts and gilded roofs.
How soon thy smooth insinuating oil
Supples the toughest fool!
He shifted his trumpet, and only took snuff.
Goldsmith's Retaliation.
Flatt'ry but ill becomes a soldier's mouth;
Leave we the practice of those meaner arts
To smooth-tongued statesmen, and betraying cour-
tiers.
Marsh's Amasis.
Beware of flattery, 't is a weed
Which oft offends the very idol- vice,
Whose shrine it would perfume.
His fiery temper brooks not opposition,
And must be met with soft and supple arts,
With crouching courtesy, and honey'd words,
Such as assuage the fierce, and bend the strong.
Rowe's Lady Jane Grey.
Minds,
By nature great, are conscious of their greatness,
And hold it mean to borrow aught from flattery.
Rowe's Royal Convert.
Of folly, vice, disease, men proud we see,
And (stranger still!) of blockhead's flattery,
Whose praise defames; as if a fool should mean,
By spitting on your face, to make it clean.
'Tis an old maxim in the schools,
That flattery's the food of fools,
Yet now and then you men of wit
Will condescend to take a bit.
No adulation; 't is the death of virtue!
Who flatters is of all mankind the lowest,
Save he who courts the flatterer.
I pass through flattery's gilded sieve
Whatever I would say.
Alas! the praise given to the ear
Ne'er was nor ne'er can be sincere.
I would give worlds, could I believe
One half that is profess'd me;
Affection! could I think it Thee,
When Flattery has caress'd me.
Oh! it is worse than mockery
To list the flatterer's tone,
Swift's Cadenus and Vanessa. To lend a ready ear to thoughts
Sirs, adulation is a fatal thing—
Rank poison for a subject, or a king.
Dr. Wolcot's Peter Pindar.
The cheek must blush to own -
To hear the red lip whisper'd of,
And the flowing curl and eye
FLOOD. (See also DELUGE.)
And now the thicken'd sky
Like a dark ceiling stood: down rush'd the rain Impetuous, and continued till the earth
Sea without shore; and in their palaces
Where luxury late reign'd, sea monsters whelp'd
And stabled, of mankind so numerous late,
All left, in one small bottom swum embark'd.
Milton's Paradise Lost.
Then came the thunder peal once more,
And the shrieking wind and the ocean roar,—
And the gallopping waves on the crumbling shore,
And the muttering earthquake's groan!
Then the sea rose up with a sudden swell,
And the heavy clouds unbroken fell;-
Till over each valley, and plain, and dell,
The sea, like a pall, was thrown!
As I do live by food, I met a fool,
Who laid him down, and bask'd him in the sun,
Who rail'd on lady fortune in good terms,
In good set terms-and yet a motley fool.
Shaks. As you like it.
Which is as dry as the remainder-biscuit
After a voyage-he hath strange places cramm'd
With observation, the which he vents
In mangled forms.
Our wise forefathers, born in sober days, Resign'd to fools the tart and witty phrase; The motley coat gave warning for the jest, Excus'd the wound, and sanctified the pest; But we from high to low all strive to sneer, Shaks. As you like it. Will all be wits, and not the livery wear.
Call me not fool, till heaven hath sent me fortune:
And then he drew a dial from his poke;
And, looking on it with lack-lustre eye,
Says, very wisely, it is ten o'clock:
"Out, thou silly moon-struck elf;
Back, poor fool, and hide thyself!"
This is what the wise ones say,
Should the idiot cross their way:
Thus may we see, quoth he, how the world wags: But if we would closely mark,
'Tis but an hour ago since it was nine;
And after an hour more 't will be eleven;
And so, from hour to hour, we ripe, and ripe,
And then, from hour to hour, we rot, and rot,
And thereby hangs a tale. When I did hear
The motley fool thus moral on the time,
My lungs began to crow like chanticleer,
That fools should be so deep-contemplative;
And I did laugh, sans intermission,
An hour by his dial-O noble fool!
A worthy fool! motley's the only wear.
We should see him not all dark;
We should find we must not scorn
The teachings of the idiot-born.
Art thou great as man can be? -
The same hand moulded him and thee.
Hast thou talent? - Taunt and jeer
Must not fall upon his ear.
Spurn him not; the blemish'd part
Had better be the head than heart.
Thou wilt be the fool to scorn
Shaks. As you like it. The teaching of the idiot-born.
I must have liberty
Withal, as large a charter as the wind,
To blow on whom I please; for so fools have:
And they that are most galled with my folly,
They most must laugh: and why, sir, must
they so?
The why is plain as way to parish church:
He, that a fool doth very wisely hit,
Doth very foolishly, although he smart,
Not to seem senseless of the bob; if not,
The wise man's folly is anatomiz'd
Even by the squand'ring glances of the fool.
Shaks. As you like it.
This fellow is wise enough to play the fool;
And, to do that well, craves a kind of wit.
And such a crafty devil as his mother
Should yield the world this ass! a woman, that
Bears all down with her brain; and this her son
Cannot take two from twenty for his heart,
And leave eighteen.
Eliza Cook. What matter though the scorn of fools be given, If the path follow'd lead us on to heaven!
Fill with Forgetfulness, fill high! yet stay-
Shaks. Twelfth Night.-'Tis from the past we shadow forth the land
Where smiles, long lost, again shall light our way,
-Though the past haunt me as a spirit,—yet I
ask not to forget!
Mrs. Hemans.
When I forget that the stars shine in air—
When I forget that beauty is in stars-
When I forget that love with beauty is-
Will I forget thee: till then all things else.
Bailey's Festus
If e'er I win a parting token,
Nothing exceeds in ridicule, no doubt,
A fool in fashion, but a fool that's out;
His passion for absurdity 's so strong,
He cannot bear a rival in the wrong.
Though wrong the mode, comply: more sense is
In wearing others' follies than our own.
Snatch the first moment of forgetfulness
To wander like a restless child away?
Soon his heart relented
Towards her, his life so late and solc delight,
Now at his feet submissive in distress,
Willis's Poems. Creature so fair his reconcilement seeking,
His counsel whom she had displeas'd, his aid:
As one disarm'd, his anger all he lost,
And thus with peaceful words uprais'd her soon.
Milton's Paradise Lost
The power that I have on you, is to spare you;
The malice towards you, to forgive you: live
And deal with others better.
Shaks. Cymbeline. Though with their high wrongs I am struck to the quick,
Yet, with my nobler reason, 'gainst my fury
Do I take part: the rarer action is
In virtue than in vengeance.
O, what form of prayer
Can serve any turn? Forgive me my foul murder!-
'That cannot be; since I am still possess'd
Of those effects for which I did the murder,
My crown, mine own ambition, and my queen.
Shaks. Hamlet.
I'll not chide thee:
Let shame come when it will, I do not call it;
I do not bid the thunder-bearer shoot,
Nor tell tales of thee to high-judging Jove:
Mend when thou cans't; be better at thy leisure.
Shaks. King Lear.
Yet beauty, though injurious, hath strange pow'r
After offence returning, to regain
Love once possess'd; nor can be easily
Repuls'd, without much inward passion felt,
And secret sting of amorous remorse.
Milton's Samson Agonistes.
He added not, and from her turn'd; but Eve
Let us no more contend, nor blame
Each other, blam'd enough elsewhere, but strive,
In offices of love, how we may lighten
Each other's burden, in our share of woe.
Fall at his feet; cling round his reverend knees,
Speak to him with thy eyes; and with thy tears
Melt his cold heart, and wake dead nature in him:
Crush him in thy arms; torture him with thy
softness:
Nor till thy prayers are granted, set him free.
Otway's Venice Preserved.
Thou shalt not force me from thee:
Use me reproachfully, and like a slave:
Tread on me, buffet me, heap wrongs on wrongs
On my poor head: I'll bear it all with patience,
Shall weary out thy most unfriendly cruelty:
Lie at thy fect, and kiss them, though they spurn
Till wounded by my sufferings thou relent,
And raise me to thy arms with dear forgiveness.
Otway's Venice Preserved,
Great souls forgive not injuries till time
Has put their enemies into their power,
That they may show forgiveness is their own
Dryden's Duke of Guise.
Thy narrow soul
Knows not the godlike glory of forgiving; Nor can thy cold, thy ruthless heart conceive Not so repuls'd, with tears that ceas'd not flowing, How large the pow'r, how fix'd the empire is,
And tresses all disorder'd, at his feet
Fell humble, and embracing them, besought
Milton's Paradise Lost.
While yet we live, scarce one short hour perhaps,
Between us two let there be peace.
Milton's Paradise Lost.
Forsake me not thus, Adam, witness heaven
What love sincere, and reverence in my heart
I bear thee, and unweeting have offended,
Unhappily deceiv'd! thy suppliant,
1 beg, and clasp thy knees; bereave me not,
Whereon I live, thy gentle looks, thy aid,
Tny counsel in this uttermost distress,
My only strength and stay: forlorn of thee,
Whither shall I betake me, where subsist?
Milton's Paradise Lost.
Do cream and mantle, like a standing pond;
And do a wilful stillness entertain,
With purpose to be drest in an opinion
Of wisdom, gravity, profound conceit;
As who should say, I am sir Oracle,
And when I ope my lips, let no dog bark!
Shaks. Merchant of Venice.
Lord Angelo is precise;
Stands at a guard with envy; scarce confesses
That his blood flows, or that his appetite
Is more to bread than stone.
Shaks. Mea. for Mea. Oh, I see thee old and formal, fitted to thy petty part,
With a little hoard of maxims preaching down a daughter's heart!
FORTITUDE.
Fortitude is not the appetite
Of formidable things, nor inconsult
Rashness; but virtue fighting for a truth;
Deriv'd from knowledge of distinguishing
Good or bad causes.
Nabb's Covent Garden.
Brave spirits are a balsam to themselves:
There is a nobleness of mind, that heals
Wounds beyond salves.
Cartwright's Lady Errant. "Tis easiest dealing with the firmest mindMore just when it resists, and, when it yields, more kind.
'Tis he indeed-disarm'd but undeprest, His sole regret the life he still possest;
With a sedate and all-enduring eye;
When fortune fled her spoil'd and favourite child,
He stood unbow'd beneath the ills upon him piled.
Byron's Childe Harold.
Existence may be borne, and the deep root
Of life and sufferance make its firm abode
In base and desolated bosoms: mute
The camel labours with the heaviest load,
And the wolf dies in silence: not bestow'd
In vain should such example be; if they,
Things of ignoble or of savage mood,
Endure and shrink not, we of nobler clay
May temper it to bear-it is but for a day.
Byron's Childe Harold.
Crabbe.-Gird your hearts with silent fortitude,
Suffering yet hoping all things.
His wounds too slight, though taken with that will,
Which would have kiss'd the hand that then
Oh! were there none, of all the many given,
To send his soul—he scarcely ask'd to heaven?
Byron's Corsair.|
Of Nature's gifts thou may'st with lilies boast,
And with the half-blown rose: but fortune, O!
She is corrupted, chang'd, and won from thee.
Shaks. King John.
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