« ПретходнаНастави »
Fools into the notion fall,
LIKE a lily, That once was mistress of the field, and flourished, I'll hang my head, and perish.
Wonder not sov’reign mistress! if perhaps
Shakspere. Not then mistrust, but tender love, enjoins That I should mind thee oft; and mind thou me.
MOCKERY, What cannot be preserved when fortune takes, Patience her injury a mockery makes. Shakspere.
Many thousand widows Will this mock, mock out of their dear husbands, Mock mothers from their sons, mock castles down.
Shakspere. He will not Mock us with his blest sight, then snatch him hence Soon shall we see our hopes return.
MODESTY. But her sad eyes still fastened on the ground, Are governed with goodly modesty, That suffers not one look to glance awry, Which may let in a thought unsound. Spenser. Maidens in modesty say No, to that Which they would have the profferers construe, Aye.
Shakspere. Can it be That modesty may more betray our sense, Than woman's lightness: having waste ground enough, Shall we desire to raze the sanctuary, And pitch our evils there.
Shakspere. He saw her charming, but he saw not half The charms her downcast modesty conceal’d.
Thomson. True modesty is a discerning grace, And only blushes at the proper place; But counterfeit is blind, and skulks through fear, Where 't is ashamed to be ashamed to appear.
Cowper. It is a harder thing for men to rate, Their own parts at an equal estimate, Than cast up fractions, in th' attempt of heav'n, Of time and motion, and adjust them ev'n; For modest persons never had a true Particular of all that is their due.
Look, look! the summer rises in her cheeks!
Modesty's the charm
But so much money as 't will bring? Butler.
Milton. Day glimmer'd in the east, and the white moon Hung like a vapour in the cloudless sky. Rogers. Plac'd in the spangled sky, with visage bright
The full-orb’d moon her radiant beams displays;
But ’neath the vivid sun's more splendid rays, Sinks all her charms, and fades her lovely light.
From the Portuguese of Camoens.
WHEN I did hear
So, Lady Flora, take my lay,
And if you find no moral there,
What moral is in being fair.
The wild-weed flower that simply blows?
Within the bosom of the rose? Tennyson.