To this we may add Shakespeare's defcription of this paffion in As You Like It.

Phabe. Good fhepherd, tell this youth what 'tis to love.

Syl. It is to be all made of phantafy;

All made of paffion, and all made of wishes ;
All adoration, duty, and obfervance ;
All humbleness, all patience, and impatience;
All purity, all trial, all obfervance.

As You Like It.

If these are juft defcriptions of love, how unlike to it is that paffion which fo profanely affumes its name!

Love gives a foft ferenity to the countenance, a languifhing to the eyes, a sweetness to the voice, and a tenderness to the whole frame; when intreating, it clafps the hands, with intermingled fingers to the breaft; when declaring, the right hand, open, is preffed with force upon the breast exactly over the heart; it makes its approaches with the utmoft delicacy, and is attended with trembling hesitation and confufion. Love defcribed.

Come hither, boy; if ever thou shalt love,

In the fweet pangs of it remember me,
For fuch as I am, all true lovers are ;
Unftaid and fkittish in all motions elfe,
Save in the conftant image of the creature
That is belov'd.-

Shakespeare's Tw. Night.

Defcription of languishing Love.

O fellow, come, the fong we had last night:

Mark it, Cefario; it is old and plain;

The fpinfters, and the knitters in the fun,

And the free maids that weave their thread with bones,

Do ufe to chaunt it; it is filly footh,

And Callies with the innocence of love

Like to old age.

Ibid.

If mufic be the food of love, play on;
Give me excess of it; that, furfeiting,
The appetite may ficken, and fo die.-
That train again ;-it had a dying fall;
O, it came o'er my ear, like the fweet fouth,
That breathes upon a bank of violets,

Stealing, and giving odour.-Enough, no more,
'Tis not fo fweet now, as it was before.

O fpirit of love, how quick and fresh art thou !
That, notwithstanding thy capacity
Receiveth as the fea, nought enters there,
Of what validity and pitch foever,
But falls into abatement and low price,
Even in a minute! fo full of fhapes is fancy,
That it alone is high fantastical.

Delight in Love.

What you do,

Twelfth Night.

Still better's what is done. When you speak, fweet,
I'd have you do it ever: when you fing,

I'd have you buy and fell fo; fo give alms,
Pray fo; and, for the ordering your affairs,
To fing them too: When you do dance, I wish you
A wave o'the fea, that you might ever do
Nothing but that; move ftill, ftill fo,

And own no other function: Each your doing,
So fingular in each particular,

Crowns what you are doing in the present deeds,

That all your acts are queens.

Proteftation in Love.

Ibid. Winter's Tale.

-O, hear me breathe my life.

Before this ancient fir, who, it should feem,

Hath fome time lov'd: I take thy hand; this hand,
As foft as dove's down, and as white as it;
Or Ethiopian's tooth, or the fann'd fnow,

That's bolted by the northern blasts twice o'er.

Shakespeare's Winter's Tale.

Love complaining.

Ay, Protheus, but that life is alter'd now; have done penance for contemning love,

Whose high imperious thoughts have punish'd me,
With bitter fafts, with penitential groans,
With nightly tears, and daily heart-fore fighs:
For in revenge of my contempt of love,

Love hath chac'd fleep from

my enthralled eyes,

And made them watchers of mine own heart's forrow.

O gentle Protheus, love's a mighty lord,

And hath fo humbled me, as I confefs

There is no woe to his correction;

Nor to his fervice, any joy on earth;
Now no discourse except it be of love;

Now can I break my faft, dine, fup, and fleep,

Upon the very fimple name of love.

Shakefp. Two Gent. of Verona.

PITY..

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 fufferings. It shows itself in a compassionate tenderness of voice; a feeling of pain in the countenance, and a gentle raifing and falling of the hands and eyes, as if mourning over the unhappy object. The mouth is open, the eyebrows are drawn down, and the features contracted or drawn together. See p. 329, 330.

Pity in plaintive narration.

As in a theatre the eyes of men,
After a well-grac'd actor leaves the stage,
Are idly bent on him that enters next,

Thinking his prattle to be tedious,

Even fo, or with much more contempt, men's eyes,
Did fcowl on Richard; no man cry'd God fave him :
No joyful tongue gave him his welcome home:

But duft was thrown upon his facred head;
Which with fuch gentle forrow he fhook off-
His face ftill combating with tears and fmiles,
The badges of his grief and patience,-

That had not God, for fome ftrong purpose, steel'd

The hearts of men, they muft perforce have melted,
And barbarism itself have pitied him.

But heav'n hath a hand in those events;

To whofe high will we bound our calm contents.

Pity for falling greatness.

Ah, Richard! with eyes of heavy mind,

I fee thy glory like a shooting star,

Shakefp. Rich. II.

Fall to the base earth, from the firmament!
Thy fun fits weeping in the lowly west,
Witneffing ftorms to come, woe, and unrest ;
Thy friends are fled, to wait upon thy foes,
And crofsly to thy good all fortune goes.

Pity for a departed Friend.

Ibid.

Alas! Poor Yorick! I knew him, Horatio; a fellow of infinite jeft, of moft excellent fancy: he hath borne me on his back a thousand times; and now how abhorred in my imagination it is; my gorge rifes at it. Here hung thofe lips that I have kiffed I know not how oft. Where be your gibes now? Your gambols? Your fongs? Your flashes of merriment, that were wont to fet the table on a roar? Not one now to mock your own grinning? Quite chop-fallen? Now get you to my lady's chamber, and tell her, let 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 chace thee from thy country, and expose
Those tender limbs of thine to the event

Of the non fparing war? and is it I

Ibid. Hamlet.

That drive thee from the sportive court, where thou
Waft shot at with fair eyes, to be the mark

Of smoky muskets? O you leaden meffengers,

That ride upon the violent speed of fire,

Fly with falfe aim; move the ftill-piercing air,
That fings with piercing, do not touch my lord!
Whoever shoots at him, I fet him there;
Whoever charges on his forward breast,
I am the caitiff, that do hold him to it;
And, though I kill him not, I am the caufe

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 miferies which nature owes,

;

Were mine at once: No, come thou home, Roufillon,
Whence honour but of danger wins a scar
As oft it lofes all; I will be gone:
My being here it is, that holds thee hence;
Shall I ftay here to do't? no, no, although
The air of paradife did fan the house,
And angels offic'd all! I will be gone.

Shakespeare's All Well, &c.

Pity for youth over-watched.

Luc. I have flept, my lord, already.

Bru. It was well done; and thou shalt fleep again;

I fhall not hold thee long: if I do live,

I will be good to thee.

[Mufic, and a fong.

This is a fleepy tune; O murd'rous flumber!
Lay'ft thou thy leaden mace upon my boy,
That plays thee mufic?-Gentle knave, good night;
I will not do thee fo much wrong to wake thee.
If thou doft nod, thou break'ft thy inftrument;
I'll take it from thee; and, good boy, good night.

Ibid. Jul. Caf.

HOPE.

Hope is a mixture of defire and joy, agitating the mind, and anticipating its enjoyment. It erects and brightens the countenance, fpreads the arms with the hands open, as to receive the object of its wifhes: the voice is plaintive, and inclining to eagernefs; the breath drawn inwards more forcibly than ufual, in order to exprefs our defires the more ftrongly, and our earneft expectation of receiving the object of

them.

Collins, in his Ode on the Paffions, gives us a beautiful picture of Hope: