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John Conington (10 August 1825 – 23 October 1869) was an English classical scholar.
Born: August 10th, 1825
Died: October 23rd, 1869
Quotes: 32 sourced quotes total
|Words (count)||23||6 - 102|
|Search Results||23||10 - 140|
They can because they think they can.
Then take, good sir, your pleasure while you may; With life so short 'twere wrong to lose a day.
This suffering will yield us yet A pleasant tale to tell.
Live and be blest! 'tis sweet to feel Fate's book is closed and under seal. For us, alas! that volume stern Has many another page to turn.
Hush your tongues from idle speech.
Snatch him, ye Gods, from mortal eyes!
'To die! and unrevenged!' she said, 'Yet let me die.'
Myself not ignorant of woe, Compassion I have learned to show.
Too cruel, lady, is the pain, You bid me thus revive again.
A lethargy of sleep, Most like to death, so calm, so deep.
'Is there, friend,' he cries, 'a spot That knows not Troy's unhappy lot?'
Fury and wrath within me rave, And tempt me to a warrior's grave.
Dire agonies, wild terrors swarm, And Death glares grim in many a form.
While memory lasts and pulses beat, The thought of Dido shall be sweet.
My life is lived, and I have played The part that Fortune gave.
Ah! would but Jupiter restore The strength I had in days of yore!
Why reel I thus, confused and blind? What madness mars my sober mind?
Fell lust of gold! abhorred, accurst! What will not men to slake such thirst?
'Tis thus that men to heaven aspire: Go on and raise your glories higher.
If men and mortal arms ye slight, Know there are gods who watch o'er right.
We have been Trojans: Troy has been: She sat, but sits no more, a queen.
O Fortune, cruellest of heavenly powers, Why make such game of this poor life of ours?
Mere grace is not enough: a play should thrill The hearer's soul, and move it at its will.
Each has his destined time: a span Is all the heritage of man: 'Tis virtue's part by deeds of praise To lengthen fame through after days.
Let hopes and sorrows, fears and angers be, And think each day that dawns the last you'll see; For so the hour that greets you unforeseen Will bring with it enjoyment twice as keen.
The journey down to the abyss Is prosperous and light: The palace gates of gloomy Dis Stand open day and night: But upward to retrace the way And pass into the light of day There comes the stress of labour; this May task a hero's might.
Here sees he the illustrious dead Who fighting for their country bled; Priests who while earthly life remained Preserved that life unsoiled, unstained; Blest bards, transparent souls and clear, Whose song was worthy Phoebus' ear; Inventors who by arts refined The common lot of human kind, With all who grateful memory won By services to others done: A goodly brotherhood, bedight With coronals of virgin white.
There are few writers whose text is in so satisfactory a state as Virgil's.
Blank verse really deserving the name I believe to be impossible except to one or two eminent writers in a generation.
In vain she strives with dying hands To wrench away the blade: Fixed in her ribs the weapon stands, Closed by the wound it made. Bloodless and faint, she gasps for breath; Her heavy eyes sink down in death; Her cheek's bright colors fade.
It is true that the longer one has lived the better one can appreciate a poem which is concerned with life. But the gain that comes to us with the years depends, partly at least, upon the riches we have been willing to extract from literature, which is the experience of men and women written out. In youth's search for this treasure the Aeneid will be at once a fair haven and a port of departure.
O ye Gods, and O great Jove, Have pity on a father's love And hear Evander's prayer: If 'tis your purpose to restore My Pallas to my arms once more; If living is to see his face, Then grant me life, of your dear grace: No toil too hard to bear. But ah! if Fortune be my foe, And meditate some crushing blow, Now, now the thread in mercy break, While hope sees dim and cares mistake, While still I clasp thee darling boy. My latest and my only joy, Nor let assurance, worse than fear, With cruel tidings wound my ear.