What is the mind of man? A restless scene Thomson's Coriolanus a. 4, s. 1. Men are machines, with all their boasted freedom, Their movements turn upon some fav'rite passion; Let art but find the latent foible out, We touch the spring, and wind them at our pleasure. I have toil'd, and till'd, and sweaten in the sun And seem well-pleased with pain? Byron's Cain, a. 3, s. 1. That which I am, I am; I did not seek For life, nor did I make myself. Ibid. Born to be plough'd with years, and sown with cares, And reap'd by Death, lord of the human soil. Byron's Heaven and Earth, pt. 1, s. 3. His fair large front, and eye sublime declar'd, Milton's Paradise Lost, b. 4. Man hath his daily work or body or mind Ibid. In the sweat of thy face shalt thou eat bread, Milton's Paradise Lost, b. 10. How poor, how rich, how abject, how august, A worm a God! Young's Night Thoughts, n. 1. Triumphantly distress'd! what joy! what dread! What can preserve my life! or what destroy! All promise is poor dilatory man, And that thro' ev'ry stage: when young, indeed, Ibid. Resolves; and re-resolves; then dies the same. Ibid. Heav'n's sov'reign saves all beings, but himself, Young's Night Thoughts, n. 1. Man! know thyself. All wisdom centres there: To none man seems ignoble, but to man. Ibid, n. 4. 'Tis vain to seek in men for more than man.. Tho' proud in promise, big in previous thought, We wisely strip the steed we mean to buy: Thus they rejoice, nor think Ibid. n. 5. Ibid. n. S. That, with to-morrow's sun, their annual toil Begins again the never-ceasing round. Thomson's Seasons-Autumn. Then what is man? And what man seeing this, And hang his head, to think himself a man. Cowper's Task, b. 2. The million flit as gay As if created only like the fly That spreads his motley wings in th' eye of noon Ibid. b. 3. Ah, why, all righteous father, didst thou make This creature, man? Why wake the unconscious dust To life and wretchedness? O better far Still had he slept in uncreated night If this the lot of being! Was it for this The vital flame? For this was thy fair image O'er all thy works, only that he might reign Porteus's Death. I remember as her bier lark Went to the grave, a Southey's Joan of Arc. MARRIAGE. Marriage to maids, is like a war to men; Lee's Mithridates. O horror! horror! after this alliance, Let tygers match with hinds, and wolves with sheep; And every creature couple with its foe. Dryden's Spanish Friar. When you Has that poor wretch to come, that married yesterday! Otway's Orphan. Oh! for a curse upon the cunning priest, Who conjur'd us together in a yoke, That galls me now. Southern's Disappointment. Are we not one? Are we not join'd by Heav'n ? Are we not mix'd like streams of meeting rivers, Rowe's Fair Penitent. O marriage! marriage! what a curse is thine, Hill's Alzira. Wedded love is founded on esteem, Fenton's Mariamne. Oh, we do all offend There's not a day of wedded life, if we Count at its close the little, bitter sum Of thoughts, and words, and looks unkind and froward, Silence that chides and woundings of the eye But prostrate at each others' feet, we should Each night forgiveness ask. Maturin's Bertram, a. 4, s. 2. Here love his golden shafts employ, here lights Milton's Paradise Lost, b. 4. Our Maker bids increase; who bids abstain Ibid. |