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VOLCANO. VOLUNTARY. Vow.
VOLCANO. THE dread volcano ministers to good: Its smother'd flames might undermine the world: Loud Ætnas fulminate in love to man. Young.
The winds are aw'd, nor dare to breathe aloud,
Edward C. Pinckney.
With voluntaries meet,
And brooks with music of their own,
vow. Did not the heavenly rhetoric of thine eye
('Gainst whom the world cannot hold argument) Persuade my heart to this false perjury;
Vows, for thee broke, deserve not punishment. A woman I forswore; but I will prove
(Thou being a goddess) I forswore not thee: My vow was earthly, thou a heavenly love:
Thy grace being gain’d, cures all disgrace in me. Vows are but breath, and breath a vapour is;
Then thou, fair sun, which on my earth dost shine, Exhal'st this vapour vow; in thee it is:
If broken then, it is no fault of mine; If by me broke, what fool is not so wise, To lose an oath to win a paradise? Shakspere.
WANT—WANTS. Want is a bitter and a hateful good, Because its virtues are not understood. Yet many things, impossible to thought, Have been, by need, to full perfection brought. The daring of the soul proceeds from thence, Sharpness of wit, and active diligence; Prudence at once, and fortitude it gives, And, if in patience taken, mends our lives; For even that indigence which brings me low, Makes me myself, and him above, to know; A good which none would challenge, few would choose, A fair possession, which mankind refuse! If we from wealth to poverty descend, Want gives to know the flatterer from the friend.
Dryden. Give want her welcome, if she comes; we find Riches to be but burthens to the mind. Herrick.
Man 's rich with little, were his judgment true;
Against our peace we arm our will:
Oh! but to breathe the breath
Of the cowslip and primrose sweet-
And the grass beneath my feet,
To feel as I used to feel,
And the walk that costs a meal!
WAR. LASTLY, stood War, in glittering arms yclad, With visage grim, stern look, and blackly hued; In his right hand a naked sword he had, That to the hilts was all with blood imbrued; And in his left, (that kings and kingdoms rued,) Famine and fire he held, and therewithal, He razed towns, and threw down towers and all. Cities he sack'd, and realms, (that whilom flowered In honour, glory, and rule, above the rest,) He orerwhelm’d, and all their fame devour'd, Consum’d, destroy'd, wasted, and never ceas'd Till he their wealth, their name, and all oppress'd; His face forehew'd with wounds, and by his side There hung his targe, with gashes deep and wide.
Sackville. Now one's the better—then the other best, Both tugging to be victor, breast to breast; Yet neither conqueror or is conquered, So is the equal poise of this fell war. Shakspere.
The amiable vice Hid in magnificence and drowned in state, Loses the fiend, receives the sounding name Of glorious war; and through the admiring throng, Uncurst the ornamented murderers move.-Fawcett.
But what most showed the vanity of life,
They set them down just where they were before, Till for new scenes of woe peace shall their force restore.
The death-shot hissing from afar,
War knows no rest,
Rogers. And what is war? A dark and desperate game, Where lives and limbs, and hearts, and souls of men Are staked for knaves who profit by our shame, And filch our gold, and scorn and crush us then, While millions fall for reasons few may ken. The single murderer we devoutly hate, And curse the felon pinioned in his den; But thousands slain, and realms made desolate, Then him who murders most, we hail and call him great.