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C.N. Douglas, comp.  Forty Thousand Quotations: Prose and Poetical.  1917.
        Am I to blame, if nature threw my body
In so perverse a mould! yet when she cast
Her envious hand upon my supple joints,
Unable to resist, and rumpled them
On heaps in their dark lodging; to revenge
Her bungled work, she stamped my mind more fair,
And as from chaos, huddled and deform’d,
The gods struck fire, and lighted up the lamps
That beautify the sky; so she inform’d
This ill-shap’d body with a daring soul,
And, making less than man, she made me more.
        As well the noble savage of the field
Might tamely couple with the fearful ewe;
Tigers might engender with the timid deer;
Wild, muddy boars defile the cleanly ermine,
Or vultures sort with doves; as I with thee.
        By heavens, my love, thou dost distract my soul!
There’s not a tear that falls from those dear eyes,
But makes my heart weep blood.
        I could perceive with joy, a silent show’r
Run down his silver beard.
                I found her on the floor
In all the storm of grief; yet beautiful!
Sighing such a breath of sorrow, that her lips,
Which late appear’d like buds, were now o’er-blown!
Pouring forth tears, at such a lavish rate,
That were the world on fire, they might have drown’d
The wrath of heaven, and quench’d the mighty ruin.
        I weep, ’tis true; but Machiavel, I swear
They’re tears of vengeance; drops of liquid fire!
So marble weeps, when flames surround the quarry,
And the pil’d oaks spout forth such scalding bubbles,
Before the general blaze.
                        If we must pray,
Rear in the streets bright altars to the gods,
Let virgin’s hands adorn the sacrifice;
And not a grey-beard forging priest come here,
To pry into the bowels of their victim,
And with their dotage mad the gaping world.
                    In taking leave,
Thro’ the dark lashes of her darting eyes,
Methought she shot her soul at ev’ry glance,
Still looking back, as if she had a mind
That you should know she left her soul behind her.
        Nature herself started back when thou wert born,
And cried, “the work’s not mine.”
The midwife stood aghast; and when she saw
Thy mountain back and thy distorted legs,
Thy face itself,
Half-minted with the royal stamp of man,
And half o’ercome with beast, she doubted long
Whose right in thee were more;
And know not if to burn thee in the flames
Were not the holier work.
        Oh! I will curse thee till thy frighted soul
Runs mad with horror.
        When Greeks join’d Greeks, then was the tug of war;
The labor’d battle sweat, and conquest bled.
        When the sun sets, shadows that show’d at noon
But small, appear most long and terrible:
So when we think fate hovers o’er our heads,
Our apprehensions shoot beyond all bounds;
Owls, ravens, crickets, seem the watch of death:
Nature’s worst vermin scare her godlike sons.
Echoes, the very leaving of a voice,
Grow babbling ghosts, and call us to our graves.
Each mole-hill thought swells to a huge Olympus,
While we, fantastic dreamers, heave and puff,
And sweat with an imagination’s weight.

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