Almeria.———— How hast thou charm’d
The wildness of the waves and rocks to this?
That thus relenting they have giv’n thee back
To earth, to light and life, to love and me?
Mourning Bride, act 1. sc. 7.
I would not be the villain that thou think’st
For the whole space that’s in the tyrant’s grasp,
And the rich earth to boot.
Macbeth, act 4. sc. 4.
The following passage expresses finely the progress of conviction.
Let me not stir, nor breathe, lest I dissolve
That tender, lovely form, of painted air,
So like Almeria. Ha! it sinks, it falls;
I’ll catch it ere it goes, and grasp her shade.
’Tis life! ’tis warm! ’tis she! ’tis she herself!
It is Almeria! ’tis, it is my wife!
Mourning Bride, act 2. sc. 6.
In the progress of thought, our resolutions become more vigorous as well as our passions.
If ever I do yield or give consent,
By any action, word, or thought, to wed
Another Lord; may then just Heav’n show’r down, &c.
Mourning Bride, act 1. sc. 1.
And this leads to a second observation, That the different stages of a passion, and its different directions, from its birth to its extinction, ought to be carefully represented in the sentiments, which otherwise will often be misplaced. Resentment, for example, when provoked by an atrocious injury, discharges itself first upon the author. Sentiments therefore of revenge take place of all others, and must in some measure be exhausted before the person injured think of pitying himself, or of grieving for his present distress. In the Cid of Corneille, Don Diegue having been affronted in a cruel manner, expresses scarce any sentiment of revenge, but is totally occupied in contemplating the low situation to which he was reduced by the affront.
O rage! ô desespoir! ô vieillesse ennemie!
N’ai je donc tant vecu que pour cette infamie?
Et ne suis-je blanchi dans les travaux guerriers,
Que pour voir en une jour fletrir tant de lauriers?
Mon bras, qu’avec respect toute l’Espagne admire,
Mon bras, qui tant de fois a sauvé cet empire,
Tant de fois affermi le trône de son roi,
Trahit donc ma querelle, et ne fait rien pour moi!
O cruel souvenir de ma gloire passée!
Oeuvre de tant de jours en un jour effacée!
Nouvelle dignité fatale à mon bonheur!
Precipice élevé d’ou tombe mon honneur!
Faut-il de votre éclat voir triompher le Comte,
Et mourir sans vengeance, ou vivre dans la honte?
Comte, fois de mon Prince à present gouverneur,
Ce haut rang n’admet point un homme sans honneur;
Et ton jaloux orgueil par cet affront insigne,
Malgré le choix du Roi, m’en a su rendre indigne.
Et toi, de mes exploits glorieux instrument,
Mais d’un corps tout de glace inutile ornement,
Fer jadis tant a craindre, et qui dans cette offense
M’as servi de parade, et non pas de defense,
Va quitte desormais le dernier des humains,
Passe pour me vanger en de meilleures mains.
Le Cid, act 1. sc. 4.