_Almanzor._---- I’ll hold it fast As life; and when life’s gone, I’ll hold this last. And if thou tak’st it after I am slain, I’ll send my ghost to fetch it back again. _Conquest of Granada, part 2. act 3._ _Lynairaxa._ A crown is come, and will not fate allow. And yet I feel something like death is near. My guards, my guards---- Let not that ugly skeleton appear. Sure Destiny mistakes; this death’s not mine; She doats, and meant to cut another line. Tell her I am a queen---- but ’tis too late; Dying, I charge rebellion on my fate; Bow down, ye slaves---- Bow quickly down and your submission show; I’m pleas’d to taste an empire ere I go. [_Dies._ _Conquest of Granada, part 2. act. 5._ _Ventidius._ But you, ere love misled your wand’ring eyes, Were, sure, the chief and best of human race, Fram’d in the very pride and boast of nature, So perfect, that the gods who form’d you wonder’d At their own skill, and cry’d, A lucky hit Has mended our design. _Dryden, All for Love, act 1._ Not to talk of the impiety of this sentiment, it is ludicrous instead of being lofty. * * * * * The famous Epitaph on Raphael is not less absurd than any of the foregoing passages: Raphael, timuit, quo sospite, vinci Rerum magna parens, et moriente mori. Imitated by Pope in his Epitaph on Sir Godfrey Kneller: Living, great Nature fear’d he might outvie Her works; and dying, fears herself may die. Such is the force of imitation; for Pope of himself would never have been guilty of a thought so extravagant. CHAP. XVII. Language of Passion. Among the particulars that compose the social part of our nature, a propensity to communicate our opinions, our emotions, and every thing that affects us, is remarkable. Bad fortune and injustice affect every one greatly; and of these we are so prone to complain, that if we have no friend or acquaintance to take part in our sufferings, we sometimes utter our complaints aloud even where there are none to listen. But this propensity, though natural, operates not in every state of mind. A man immoderately grieved, seeks to afflict himself; and self-affliction is the gratification of the passion. Immoderate grief is therefore mute; because complaining is struggling for relief: It is the wretch’s comfort still to have Some small reserve of near and inward wo, Some unsuspected hoard of inward grief, Which they unseen may wail, and weep, and mourn, And glutton-like alone devour. _Mourning Bride, act 1. sc. 1._ When grief subsides, it then and no sooner finds a tongue. We complain, because complaining is an effort to disburden the mind of its distress[63]. Surprise and terror are silent passions for a different reason: they agitate the mind so violently, as for a time to suspend the exercise of its faculties, and in particular that of speech.