660 VICE. VICISSITUDE. Then, if by gathering woes oppressed To question or complaint unholy, With humble hope and reverence lowly. While virtue lends a zest to joy, Gerald Griffin, Our very tears she turns to smiles, But vice her foul Circean cup May medicate in vain: E'en in her mirth some sorrow lurks, In all her pleasures, pain. Since this, with voice from heaven, proclaims That He that rules above Doth on the side of virtue stand, Let fear be lost in love. C. C. Colton. VICISSITUDE. OH, sad vicissitude Of earthly things! to what untimely end Or rest be found in fortune's restless wheel. But there's a sure vicissitude below, May. Verse sweetens toil, however rude the sound; Young. Gifford. VICTORY. VILLANY. VIOLENCE. 661 VICTORY. 'Tis not victory to win the field, Unless we make our enemies to yield "It was the English," Kaspar cried, For many thousand bodies here Lay rotting in the sun; Gomersall. But things like that, you know, must be Southey. VILLANY. I LIKE not fair terms, and a villain's mind. Shakspere. Calm, thinking villains, whom no faith could fix, Pope. VIOLENCE. THESE violent delights have violent ends, And in the taste confounds the appetite.-Shakspere. He does mainly vary from my sense, Who thinks the empire gain'd by violence Terence. I'LL leave my son my virtuous deeds behind; Forgive me this my virtue: Shakspere. For, in the fatness of these pursy times, Shakspere. Virtue's a solid rock, whereat being aim'd While they recoil and wound the shooter's face. Mortals, that would follow me, Heaven itself would stoop to her. Beaumont. Milton. Virtue may be assail'd, but never hurt; For blessings ever wait on virtuous deeds, Milton. Congreve. Each must in virtue strive for to excel; Herrick. Shall ignorance of good and ill Dare to direct th' eternal will? Seek virtue; and, of that possess'd, Gay. VIRTUE. Virtue, the strength and beauty of the soul. 663 Armstrong. Count all th' advantage prosperous vice attains, What nothing earthly gives or can destroy, The only amaranthine flower on earth Pope. Pope. Cowper. Virtue on herself relying, Every passion hushed to rest, Loses every pain of dying Goldsmith. In the hope of being blest. Virtue! how many as a lowly thing, Born of weak folly, scorn thee! but thy name Alone they know; upon thy soaring wing They'll fear to mount, nor could thy sacred flame Burn in their baser hearts: the biting thorn, The flinty crag, flowers hiding, strew thy field; Yet blest is he whose daring bides the scorn Of the frail, easy herd, and buckles on thy shield. Who says thy ways are bliss, trolls but a lay To lure the infant; if thy paths, to view, Were always pleasant, crime's worst sons would lay Their daggers at thy feet, and, from mere sloth Mrs. Maria Brooks pursue. THE day seems long, but night is odious; Him God vouchsafed To call by vision from his father's house, Milton. Visions on visions! how the moving throng, Of flowers unwithering in the sun's hot glance; The same and oh, how beautiful! the same As memory meets thee through the mist of years! Then welcome to my lonely hours, Come with thy coronal of flowers, T. K. Hervey. In my heart's depth shall find a home, W. Howitt. |