Rage.
See Anger.

Arms, Arms, my Friends: Tho' vanquish'd, This last Day
Calls us to Arms: Give me the Greeks again:
Off:--let me go:--I'll see the Eight renew'd:
This Day We will not all die unreveng'd.--

Soon as the Queen perceiv'd the dawning Day,
And from a Tower beheld the Navy move
With even Sails, the empty Ports, and Shores
Abandon'd: with repeated Blows she beats
Her beauteous Breast, and rends her yellow Hair:
Shall he then go? The Fugitive? O Jove!
She cry'd, and make my Kingdoms thus his Sport?
Will they not rush to Arms? from all the Town
Pursue? While Others from the Docks swift plunge
My Ships into the Sea? Go, fly: bring Fire:
Quick, hoise your Sails, and strongly ply your Oars.
What was't I said? where am I? what Distraction
Has turn'd my Brain?--Unhappy Dido! now
Thy cruel Fate stabs home.--

Thus wild He raves: and from his smoking Mouth
Burst Sparks of Fire, and Flashes from his Eyes.
So hideous roars the Bull with previous Rage,
And practices the Fight: against an Oak
Whetting his Horns, he pushes empty Air,
And spurns the Sand, preluding to the War.--

When Turnus saw the harrass'd Latins faint
With unsuccessful War: his Promise claim'd:
Himself mark'd out, and by all Eyes observ'd:
Conscious of inborn Worth he burns with Rage
Implacable, and rouses all his Fire.
The lordly Lion thus, on Lybia's Plains,
Gor'd by the Hunter's Spear within his Breast
Infix'd, at length springs furious to the Fight,
And shakes with dreadful Pride his shaggy Mane:
Intrepid snaps the sticking Dart, and roars,
And foams with bloody Mouth. No less, incens'd;
Fierce Turnus storms:--
Rain.
See Flood.

Out flies the South, with dropping Wings, and shrouds
His dreadful Visage in a Night of Clouds.
His white Hairs stream, his Beard is swell'd with Show'rs,
Mists bind his Brows, Rain from his Bosom pours.
As his broad Hand the hanging Clouds constrains,
They roar, and scatter in descending Rains.
Iris extends her Bow of various Dies,
And feeds the weeping Clouds with new Supplies.
The Corn is lodg'd: despairing mourns the Swain;
And the long Labours of the Year are vain.--

--Black with rushing Rain
A Tempest rag'd enormous, and the Hills
And Fields with Thunder shook: o'er all the Sky
A Show'r with Water dark, and thicken'd Winds
Turbid descends.--

As when a Tempest, thick with patt'ring Hail,
Precipitate descends: from all the Fields
Flies ev'ry Traveller, and lab'ring Hind,
For Shelter safe, or to a River's Bank,
Or to the hollow of some lofty Rock:
There hide secure, while pour'd upon the Earth
The Tempest rages: till the Sun restor'd
Permits them to renew the Toils of Day.--

--As from the West
And rainy Kids a turbid Storm descends,
And beats the Ground: or thick with rattling Hail
Tumbles precipitate into the Sea:
When Jove tempestuous whirls the wintry Show'r
With Winds aloft, and bursts the bellying Clouds.--
Rapidity.

As when from diff'rent Parts two rushing Fires
Invade a Grove of crackling Lawrel--Boughs:
Or from the Mountain's Tops with tumbling Flood
And roaring Noise two foamy Rivers run
Into the Sea, and sweeping force their Way:
With such Rapidity the Trojan Chief
And Turnus thro' the Battle rush.--

As when a Rock, from some high Mountain's Top,
Tumbles precipitate, or torn by Winds,
Or by a roaring Flood, or eating Age:
Down the steep Cliff the massy Fragment runs
With Impulse vast, and jumps upon the Ground,
Involving, as it rolls, Men, Beasts, and Woods.--

More swift with rapid Course the Horses go,
Than roaring Rivers in the Winter flow:
With them compar'd the Jav'lin passes slow.
The Parthian Dart not near so swiftly flies,
Nor the South--Wind that sweeps along the Skies,
Nor Thoughts that in an anxious Bosom rise.--
Reason.

--Reason's Force can pierce
The deep Recesses of the Universe:
No Bars can stop it: thro' the World it flies,
And Heav'n itself lies open to it's Eyes.--

Think not thy Power too small, too weak thy Mind,
Because it's to a little Body joyn'd:
For wondrous is it's Force:--how small a Mass
Of standard Gold exceeds vast Heaps of Brass!
How little is the Apple of the Eye!
And yet, at once, it takes in half the Sky:
How vast the Disproportion to the Sense!
The Organ small, the Object is immense.
So, from the narrow Limits of the Heart,
The active Soul does vig'rous Life impart
To all the Limbs: it's Sway the Members own,
And wide it's Empire spreads around it's Throne.
Regard thy Powers, O Man! nor heed thy Size:
In piercing Reason thy Advantage lies;
Reason that conquers all, and rules the Skies.--
Repentance.

He heard her Falshood with a mournful Look,
The Wreath his Head, the Harp his Hand forsook:
Then kindling into Rage, his Bow he drew:
Swift the inevitable Arrow flew,
And deeply enter'd that soft tender Breast,
Which to his own so often had been prest.
A Groan she gave, when she the Mischief found,
And pull'd the Arrow reeking from the Wound.
O'er her fair Limbs the crimson Tide was shed,
And with the streaming Blood her Spirits fled.

The Lovesick God too late repents the Deed:
He hates the Bird that made her Falsehood known,
And hates himself for what himself had done:
The Bow, the Shaft that sent her to the Fates,
And his own Hand that sent the Shaft he hates:
Fain would he heal the Wound, and ease her Pain,
And tries the Compass of his Art in vain.

But when he saw the lovely Nymph expire,
The Pile made ready, and the kindling Fire,
With Sighs, and Groans, her Obsequies he kept,
And, if a God could weep, the God had wept:
Her Corps he kiss'd, and heav'nly Incense brought,
And solemniz'd the Death himself had wrought.--

Unhappy Phaëton, when from the Sky,
He saw the Earth, far, far below him, lie,
All pale with fear, and trembling at the Sight,
And scarce enduring such Excess of Light,
Too late he wish'd the fiery Steeds untry'd,
His Birth obscure, and his Request deny'd:
Gladly would Merops for his Father own,
And quit his boasted Kindred to the Sun.--
Reproach.
See Upbraiding.

O void of all Resentment! whom no Wrongs
Can move, Ye ever stupid Tuscans! whence
This Panic? whence such Cowardice of Soul?
A Woman drives You straggling, and defeats
These Squadrons: Wherefore hold You in your Hands
Those Swords, and those unprofitable Darts?
But not to Venus, and nocturnal Wars
Are You such Recreants: nor so listless watch
The Bacchanalian Revels, when those Feasts
The crooked Pipe of Bacchus has proclaim'd,
(This is your Love, your Study, and Delight,)
Till the auspicious Augur's Voice declares
The sacred Rites begun, and Victims slain
Invite You, with their Fat, and pamper'd Flesh,
Into the deep Recesses of the Grove.--

O Thou, the Head, and Source of all this Woe
To Latium! why so oft dost Thou expose
Our wretched Citizens to Toil and Death?
Forsooth, that Turnus may espouse a Queen,
We, viler Lives, a Rabble, uninterr'd,
And undeplor'd, must perish in the War.--

Uxorious Man! ah! thoughtless! unconcern'd
For thy own Kingdom, and thy own Affairs!
What dost Thou purpose? with what Prospect waste
Thy Time, unactive, on these Lybian Coasts?
Request Dying.
See Dying.

Now at Death's Door, she spent and fainting lay,
And these few Words had only Strength to say:
By all the sacred Bonds of plighted Love!
By all your Rev'rence to the Pow'rs above!
By all that made me charming once appear!
By ev'ry Thing for which you held me dear!
And last, by Love, the Cause thro' which I bleed,
Let Aura never to my Bed succeed!--

Now strike, she said: now spill my noble Blood:
Deep in my Breast, or Throat (for I'm prepar'd,)
Your Dagger plunge:--and then her Breast she bar'd.
But let not the rude Hand of Man pollute
A Virgin Victim: 'tis a modest Suit.
It best will please, whoe'er demands my Blood,
That freely, and untouch'd I reach the Stygian Flood.
Yet let one short, last, dying Pray'r be heard;
To Priam's Daughter pay this last Regard:
'Tis Priam's Daughter, not a Captive, sues:
Do not the Rites of Sepulture refuse.
To my afflicted Mother, I implore,
Free, without Ransom, my dead Corps restore:
Nor barter me for Gain, when I am cold,
But be her Tears the Price, if I am sold;
Time was, she could have ransom'd me with Gold.

Thus as she pray'd, one common Show'r of Tears
Burst forth, and stream'd from ev'ry Eye but her's.
Ev'n the Priest wept: and with a deep Remorse
Plung'd in her Heart the Steel's resistless Force.
Her slacken'd Limbs sink gently to the Ground,
Dauntless her Looks, unalter'd by the Wound.
And as she fell, she strove, with decent Pride,
To hide what suits a Virgin's Care to hide.--

--One thing I implore,
(If aught of Grace remain for vanquish'd Foes)
Permit my Corps to be interr'd: I know
The Malice of my Subjects hovers round:
Forbid that Outrage: let me share a Grave,
Joyn'd to my Son, and rest with him in Death.--

-- He suppliant bends
His Eyes: And, stretching out his Hand, 'Tis true,
I have deserv'd, He cry'd: Nor will I strive
To deprecate: Enjoy thy Fortune's Gift.
Yet Oh! if aught a wretched Parent's Care
Can touch thy Soul (Thou too hadst such a Sire
The old Anchises) pity Daunus' Age:
And, whether living, or despoil'd of Breath,
(Thine be that Choice) restore me to my Friends.--
Retirement.

Oh! when shall I a Country Life enjoy,
And with old Authors my calm Hours employ,
Blest with sweet Leisure, blest with downy Peace,
And my whole Business to consult my Ease!
When, when shall I, compleatly happy, there,
Delightfully forget my former Days of Care!--

What greater Bliss on Earth can be,
Than after much Anxiety,
Business the Load of Life laid down,
Retiring to one's native Town,
A quiet Leisure to possess,
That long desir'd Happiness.--
Retreat.
See Flight.

Turnus, retreating, from the Fight withdraws
By slow Degrees: and to that Part retires,
Which by the ambient River's Stream is wash'd.
The more the shouting Trojans urge him close,
And thick'ning onwards rush. As when a Band
Of Hunters press and gore with pointed Spears
A savage Lion: He appal'd gives Way,
With Aspect stern, and makes a sour Retreat:
Courage and Rage permit him not to turn
His Back: Nor does his Strength suffice to leap
(Tho' fain he would) against the Darts, and Foes.
So Turnus backward with slow Paces moves,
Dubious of Thought, and all with Fury burns.
Ev'n then the Centre of the hostile Troops
He twice attack'd, twice drove them on the Walls
Confus'd in hasty Flight. But all at once
On Him alone their Forces from the Tents
United press:--He therefore, with his Shield,
And Arms, unable to support the Shock,
Stands panting, with such Storms of Darts o'erwhelm'd
On ev'ry Side: his hollow Temples round
With oft repeated Blows his Helmet rings,
Batter'd with Stones, and flatten'd to his Head:
It's Crest struck off: Nor does his Target's Orb
Suffice against the Strokes: The Trojans thick,
With thund'ring Mnestheus at their Head, push on.
Then Sweat in Rivers o'er his Body flows:
He faints with Toil, stagg'ring he gasps for Breath:
And the vast Labour shakes his weary Limbs.
At length into the River's yellow Waves,
Plunging himself, he leaps with all his Arms:
The gentle Stream receives him, as he falls,
In it's soft Lap: and, washing off the Blood,
Wafts him exulting to rejoin his Friends.—