ANATOMY. ANCESTRY. 39 ANATOMY. OH, that my tongue were in the thunder's mouth! Then with a passion I would shake the world, And rouse from sleep that fell anatomy, Which cannot hear a feeble lady's voice. Shakspere. They brought one Pinch, a hungry, lean-faced villain, A mere anatomy, a mountebank, A threadbare juggler, and a fortune-teller, A needy, hollow-eyed, sharp-looking wretch, Hence, when anatomists discourse, They grant, if higher powers think fit, And that, for anything in nature, Shakspere. Pigs might squeak love odes, dogs bark satire. Pope. ANCESTRY. BOAST not these titles of your ancestors, Brave youths; they're their possessions, not your own: For they are strong supporters; but, till then Ben Jonson. I have no urns, no dusty monuments; Jonson. Obscure! why prithee what am I? I knew I can but guess beyond the fourth degree, Dryden. 40 ANCESTRY. ANGELS. It is, indeed, a blessing, when the virtues And do derive themselves from th' imitation They that on glorious ancestors enlarge, Nabb. Young. "Your ancient house?" No more: I cannot see The wondrous merits of a pedigree: -Nor of a proud display Of smoky ancestors in wax and clay. ANGELS-ANGELIC. Gifford. How oft do they their silver bowers leave, And their bright squadrons round about us plant; And all for love, and nothing for reward: Oh! why should heavenly love to man have such regard. Thou hast the sweetest face I ever looked on; Shakspere. Thus they in heaven, above the starry sphere, Angels, contented with their fame in heaven, My fancy formed thee of angelic kind, Some emanation of the all-beauteous mind. Milton. Pope. Are ye for ever to your skies departed? ANGELS. ANGER. It is a beautiful, a blessed belief, 41 That the beloved dead, grown angels, watch How sweet it were, if without feeble fright, At evening in our room, and bend on ours ANGER. ANGER Is blood, pour'd and perplex'd into a froth; Self-mettle tires him. Sir W. Davenant. Anger is like Shakspere. A full hot horse, who being allowed his way, Give him no breath, but now Make boot of his distraction: never anger Made good guard for itself. Shakspere. Anger's my meat; I sup upon myself, Shakspere. And so shall starve with feeding What sudden anger's this? how have I reaped it? Leaped from his eyes. So looks the chafed lion Shakspere. Be calm in arguing; for fierceness makes Anger in hasty words and blows, Madness and anger differ but in this, Where there's Power to punish, 'tis tyranny to rage; Waller. Charles Alleyn. 'Tis true she's painted with a sword, but looks As if she held it not; though war be in Her hand, yet peace dwells in her face. Henry Killigrew. When anger rushes unrestrain❜d to action, The man of thought strikes deepest, and strikes safest. Go to the bee! and thence bring home, (Worth all the treasures of her comb,) An antidote against rash strife: She, when her angry flight she wings, The ocean lashed to fury loud, Its high waves mingling with the cloud; To anger's dark and troubled sea. Bishop. J. W. Eastburn. THE pleasant'st angling 'tis to see the fish Shakspere. Give me mine angle; we'll to the river there, Let others freeze with angling reeds, And cut their legs with sticks and weeds, With strangling snares or windowy net; Shakspere. Donne. In genial spring, beneath the quiv'ring shade, With looks unmoved, he lures the scaly breed, He, like a patient angler, ere he struck, I in these flowery meads would be; And angling too, that solitary vice, Izaak Walton. Byron. |