John Conington

Me, guilty me, make me your aim,This was his crime, and this alone.

— John Conington

Thus, severed by the ruthless plough,O'erladen by the shower.

— John Conington

Blest pair! if aught my verse avail, From off the heart of time.

— John Conington

'Tis thus that men to heaven aspire:Go on and raise your glories higher.

— John Conington

Each has his destined time: a spanTo lengthen fame through after days.

— John Conington

O impotence of man's frail mind When Fortune follows at its will!

— John Conington

In vain she strives with dying handsHer cheek's bright colors fade.

— John Conington

Why reel I thus, confused and blind?What madness mars my sober mind?

— John Conington

Fierce boils in every veinThe soldier's high disdain.

— John Conington

Let Rome be glorious on the earth,The centre of Italian worth.

— John Conington

He who maligns an absent friend's fair fame,Beware him, Roman! that man steals or stabs!

— John Conington

Then take, good sir, your pleasure while you may;With life so short 'twere wrong to lose a day.

— John Conington

O Fortune, cruellest of heavenly powers,Why make such game of this poor life of ours?

— John Conington

You lose no time in taking out a fly,But it runs on, and will, while time shall last.

— John Conington

Let hopes and sorrows, fears and angers be,Will bring with it enjoyment twice as keen.

— John Conington

Virtue's a mere name,Or 'tis high venture that achieves high aim.

— John Conington

For easier 'tis to learn and recollectWhat moves derision than what claims respect.

— John Conington

Who hopes by strange variety to please,Puts dolphins among forests, boars in seas.

— John Conington

Mere grace is not enough: a play should thrillThe hearer's soul, and move it at its will.

— John Conington

The gods imploreTo crush the proud and elevate the poor.

— John Conington

What's kept at home you cancel by a stroke:What's sent abroad you never can revoke.

— John Conington

None knows the reason why this curseWas sent on him, this love of making verse.

— John Conington

A wet summer and a fine winter should be the farmer's prayer.

— John Conington

Arise from my bones, my unknown avenger.

— John Conington

Blank verse really deserving the name I believe to be impossible except to one or two eminent writers in a generation.

— John Conington

There are few writers whose text is in so satisfactory a state as Virgil's.

— John Conington

Virgil imitated Homer, but imitated him as a rival, not as a disciple.

— John Conington

In the moment of our talking, envious time has ebb'd away.Seize the present; trust to-morrow e'en as little as you may.

— John Conington

Ah! Postumus! Devotion failsNor conjures conquering Death away.

— John Conington

Death takes the mean man with the proud;The fatal urn has room for all.

— John Conington

No, trust the Muse: she opes the good man's grave,And lifts him to the gods.

— John Conington

So vast the labor to createThe fabric of the Roman state!

— John Conington

Then should some man of worth appearTheir rebel wills, their anger cools.

— John Conington

Comrades and friends! for ours is strengthThe Gods will heal, like those.

— John Conington

This suffering will yield us yetA pleasant tale to tell.

— John Conington

Bear up, and live for happier days.

— John Conington

She turned, and flashed upon their viewAnd showed the goddess as she stept.

— John Conington

'Is there, friend,' he cries, 'a spotThat knows not Troy's unhappy lot?'

— John Conington

E'en here the tear of pity springs,And hearts are touched by human things.

— John Conington

If men and mortal arms ye slight,Know there are gods who watch o'er right.

— John Conington

May Heaven, if virtue claim its thought,With worthier meed your acts requite!

— John Conington

Myself not ignorant of woe,Compassion I have learned to show.

— John Conington

Too cruel, lady, is the pain,You bid me thus revive again.

— John Conington

Now dews precipitate the night,And setting stars to rest invite.

— John Conington

I quail,E'en now, at telling of the tale.

— John Conington

Then come the clamour and the blare,And shouts and clarions rend the air.

— John Conington

Fury and wrath within me rave,And tempt me to a warrior's grave.

— John Conington

'Tis come, our fated day of death.

— John Conington

We have been Trojans: Troy has been:She sat, but sits no more, a queen.

— John Conington

Dire agonies, wild terrors swarm,And Death glares grim in many a form.

— John Conington

I heard, fear-stricken and amazed, My speech tongue-tied, my hair upraised.

— John Conington

Fell lust of gold! abhorred, accurst!What will not men to slake such thirst?

— John Conington

Live and be blest! 'tis sweet to feelHas many another page to turn.

— John Conington

Snatch him, ye Gods, from mortal eyes!

— John Conington

Huge, awful, hideous, ghastly, blind.

— John Conington

Fear proves a base-born soul.

— John Conington

She calls it marriage now; such nameShe chooses to conceal her shame.

— John Conington

From me you fly! Ah! let me crave,If prayer can touch you, change your will.

— John Conington

While memory lasts and pulses beat,The thought of Dido shall be sweet.

— John Conington

Curst Love! what lengths of tyrant scorn Wreak'st not on those of woman born?

— John Conington

A woman's will Is changeful and uncertain still.

— John Conington

My life is lived, and I have playedThe part that Fortune gave.

— John Conington

Hush your tongues from idle speech.

— John Conington

They can because they think they can.

— John Conington

My chief, let Fate cry on or back,The stroke of Fortune who endures.

— John Conington

War, dreadful war, and Tiber floodI see incarnadined with blood.

— John Conington

The journey down to the abyssMay task a hero's might.

— John Conington

Back, ye unhallowed!

— John Conington

Now for a heart that scorns dismay:Now for a soul prepared.

— John Conington

Along the illimitable shadeBeneath her niggard light.

— John Conington

At Orcus' portals hold their lairAnd with them Death's blood-brother, Sleep.

— John Conington

No longer dream that human prayerThe will of Fate can overbear.

— John Conington

A lethargy of sleep,Most like to death, so calm, so deep.

— John Conington

This to a tyrant master soldHis native land for cursed gold.

— John Conington

No, had I e'en a hundred tongues,Nor tell the forms of penal woe.

— John Conington

They reach the realms of tranquil bliss. A paradise of pleasances.

— John Conington

Here sees he the illustrious deadWith coronals of virgin white.

— John Conington

Each for himself, we all sustainThe few, and breathe this blissful air.

— John Conington

But, Roman, thou, do thou control And crush the sons of pride.

— John Conington

Sleep gives his name to portals twain; Whence Pluto sends delusive dreams.

— John Conington

Terror wings his flight.

— John Conington

Thou too take courage, wealth despise,Rejected or disdained.

— John Conington

Ah! would but Jupiter restoreThe strength I had in days of yore!

— John Conington