1 Reproaching with want of Friendship. for You have done that you should be sorry For certain sums of gold, which you deny'd me; To you for gold to pay my legions, Which you deny'd me: Was that done like Cassius? When Marcus Brutus grows so covetous, To lock such rascal-counters from his friends, Reproaching with want of Manliness. 0 proper stuff! This is the very painting of your fears; Authoriz'd by her grandam. Shame itself! Ibid Ibid. Macbeth. Reproaching with want of Courage and Spirit. Thou slave, thou wretch, thou coward, Thou little valiant, great in villany! Thou ever strong upon the stronger side! Thou fortune's champion, thou dost never fight And dost thou now fall over to my foes? FEAR AND TERROUR. King John. Fear is a mixture of aversion and sorrow, discomposing and debilitating the mind upon the approach or anticipation of evil. When this is attended with surprise and much discomposure, it grows into terrour and consternation. Fear, violent and sudden, opens wide the eyes and mouth, shortens the nose, gives the countenance an air of wildness, covers it with deadly paleness, draws back the elbows parallel with the sides, lifts up the open hands, with the fingers spread, to the height of the breast, at some distance before it, so as to shield it from the dreadful object. One foot is drawn back behind the other, so that the body seems shrinking from the danger, and putting itself in a posture for flight. The heart beats violently, the breath is quick and short, and the whole body is thrown into a general tremour. The voice is weak and trembling, the sentences are short, and the meaning confused and incoherent. Terrour before dreadful Actions described. Between the acting of a dreadful thing, Shakespeare's Jul. Cas. Terrour of Evening and Night described. Light thickens, and the crow Makes wing to the rooky wood; Good things of day begin to droop and drowse; Thou marvell'st at my words: but hold thee still; Fear from a dreadful Object. Angels and ministers of grace defend us Be thou a spirit of health, or goblin damn'd, Bring with thee airs from heav'n, or blasts from hell, Thou com'st in such a questionable shape That I will speak to thee. Save me, and hover o'er me with your wings, You heav'nly guards!-what would your gracious figure? Horrour at a dreadful Apparition. Ibid. Hamlet. How ill this taper burns! ha! who comes here ? That shapes this monstrous apparition It comes upon me-Art thou any thing? Art thou some God, some angel, or some devil, Ibid. Julius Cesar, Terrour from committing Murder. Mac. I've done the deed-didst not thou hear a noise? Did you not speak? Mac. When? Lady. Now. Mac. As I descended ? Lady. Ay. Mac. Hark!-who lies i' th' second chamber? Mac. This is a sorry sight. Lady. A foolish thought to say a sorry sight. Mac. There's one did laugh in his sleep, and one cry'd murder ! That they did wake each other; I stood and heard them : But they did say their pray'rs, and address'd them Again to sleep. Shakespeare's Macbeth. Fear of being discovered in Murder. Alas, I am afraid they have awak'd, And 'tis not done; th' attempt, and not the deed, SORROW. Shakespeare's Macbeth. Sorrow is a painful depression of spirit, upon the deprivation of good, or arrival of evil; when it is silent and thoughtful, it is sadness; when long indulged, so as to prey upon and possess the mind, it becomes habitual, and grows into melancholy; when tossed by hopes and fears, it is distraction; when these are swallowed up by it, it settles into despair. In moderate sorrow, the countenance is dejected, the eyes are cast downward, the arms hang loose, sometimes a little raised, suddenly to fall again; the hands open, the fingers spread, and the voice plaintive, frequently interrupted with sighs. But when this passion is in excess, it distorts the countenance, as if in agonies of pain; it raises the voice to the loudest complainings, and sometimes even to cries and shrieks; it wrings the hands, beats the head and breast, tears the hair, and throws itself on the ground; and, like other passions, in excess, seems to border on frenzy. Sadness. Anth. In sooth, I know not why I am so sad. And such a want-wit sadness makes of me, Gra. You look not well, signor Anthonio; Believe me, you are marvellously chang'd. Anth. I hold the world but as the world, Gratiano ; A stage, where every one must play his part; And mine's a sad one. Shakespeare's Merchant of Venice. Deep Melancholy described. She never told her love, But let concealment, like a worm i' th' bud, And with a green and yellow melancholy She sat like Patience on a monument Smiling at Grief. Pensive foreboding. Ibid. Twelfth Night. My mother had a maid call'd Barbara, Silent Grief. Ibid. Othelle. Seems, madam! nay, it is: I know not seems, 'Tis not alone my inky cloak, good mother, Nor customary suits of solemn black, Nor windy suspiration of forc'd breath; Inward Sorrow. Say that again. The shadow of my sorrow! Ha! let's see: Ibid. Hamlet. |