The skies are painted with unnumbered sparks;
They are all fire, and every one doth shine;
But there's but one in all doth hold his place:
So in the world: 'tis furnished well with men,
And men are flesh and blood, and apprehensive;
Yet in the number I do know but one
That unassailable holds on his rank,
Unshaked of motion; and that I am he,
Let me a little show it even in this,—
That I was constant Cimber should be banished,
And constant do remain to keep him so.
—Shakspeare.
Not the solemn demand of my person, not the vengeance of the Amphictyonic Council, which they denounced against me, not the terror of their threatenings, not the flattery of their promises,—no, nor the fury of those accursed wretches whom they roused like wild beasts against me, could ever tear this affection from my breast.—Demosthenes.
That day I oft remember, when from sleep
I first awaked and found myself reposed
Under a shade on flowers, much wondering where
And what I was, whence thither brought, and how.
—Milton.
Chained in the market-place he stood,
A man of giant frame,
Amid the gathering multitude
That shrunk to hear his name;
All stern of look and strong of limb,
His dark eye on the ground;
And silently they gazed on him,
As on a lion bound.—Bryant.
Of man's first disobedience, and the fruit
Of that forbidden tree whose mortal taste
