Joseph Addison

How beautiful is death, when earn'd by virtue! Who would not be that youth? What pity is it That we can die but once to serve our country!

Curse on his virtues! they've undone his country.

I will indulge my sorrows, and give way To all the pangs and fury of despair.

When love once pleas admission to our hearts, (In spite of all the virtue we can boast), The woman that deliberates is lost.

Why wilt thou add to all the griefs I suffer Imaginary ills, and fancy'd tortures?

See they suffer death, But in their deaths remember they are men, Strain not the laws to make their tortures grievous.

To my confusion, and eternal grief, I must approve the sentence that destroys me.

Talk not of love: thou never knew'st its force.

Loveliest of women! heaven is in thy soul, Beauty and virtue shine forever round thee, Bright'ning each other! thou art all divine!

When love's well-timed 'tis not a fault of love; The strong, the brave, the virtuous, and the wise, Sink in the soft captivity together.

The friendships of the world are oft Confederacies in vice, or leagues of pleasure; Ours has severest virtue for its basis, And such a friendship ends not but with life.

Young men soon give and soon forget affronts; Old age is slow in both.

Great Pompey's shade complains that we are slow, And Scipio's ghost walks unavenged amongst us!

A day, an hour, of virtuous liberty Is worth a whole eternity in bondage.

My voice is still for war. Gods! Can a Roman senate long debate Which of the two to choose, slavery or death? No, let us rise at once, Gird on our swords, and, At the head of our remaining troops, attack the foe,

Beauty soon grows familiar to the lover, Fades in his eye, and palls upon the sense.

Were you with these, my prince, you'd soon forget The pale, unripened beauties of the north.

'Tis pride, rank pride, and haughtiness of soul: I think the Romans call it Stoicism.

If the following day he chance to find A new repast, or an untasted spring, Blesses his stars, and thinks it luxury.

Better to die ten thousand deaths, Than wound my honour.

Oh! think what anxious moments pass between The birth of plots, and their last fatal periods, Oh! 'tis a dreadful interval of time, Filled up with horror all, and big with death!

Thy father's merit sets thee up to view, And shows thee in the fairest point of light, To make thy virtues, or thy faults, conspicuous.

'Tis not in mortals to command success, But we'll do more, Sempronius; we'll deserve it.

Love is not to be reason'd down, or lost In high ambition, and a thirst of greatness; 'Tis second life, it grows into the soul, Warms every vein, and beats in every pulse.