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Aristophanes, Lysistrata (ed. Jack Lindsay), line 1112 (search)
em courteously, as women should. And if they grudge fingers, guide them by other methods, And introduce them with ready tact. The Athenians Draw by whatever offers you a grip. Now, Spartans, stay here facing me. Here you, Athenians. Both hearken to my words. I am a woman, but I'm not a fool. And what of natural intelligence I own Has been filled out with the remembered precepts My father and the city-elders taught me. First I reproach you both sides equally That when at Pylae and Olympia, At Pytho and the many other shrines That I could name, you sprinkle from one cup The altars common to all Hellenes, yet You wrack Hellenic cities, bloody Hellas With deaths of her own sons, while yonder clangs The gathering menace of barbarians. ATHENIANS We cannot hold it in much longer now. LYSISTRATA Now unto you, O Spartans, do I speak. Do you forget how your own countryman, Pericleidas, once came hither suppliant Before our altars, pale in his purple robes, Praying for an army when in Messe
Q. Horatius Flaccus (Horace), Odes (ed. John Conington), Book 1, Poem 16 (search)
O lovelier than the lovely dame That bore you, sentence as you please Those scurril verses, be it flame Your vengeance craves, or Hadrian seas. Not Cybele, nor he that haunts Rich Pytho, worse the brain confounds, Not Bacchus, nor the Corybants Clash their loud gongs with fiercer sounds Than savage wrath; nor sword nor spear Appals it, no, nor ocean's frown, Nor ravening fire, nor Jupiter In hideous ruin crashing down. Prometheus, forced, they say, to add To his prime clay some favourite part From every kind, took lion mad, And lodged its gall in man's poor heart. 'Twas wrath that laid Thyestes low; 'Tis wrath that oft destruction calls On cities, and invites the foe To drive his plough o'er ruin'd walls. Then calm your spirit; I can tell How once, when youth in all my veins Was glowing, blind with rage, I fell On friend and foe in ribald strains. Come, let me change my sour for sweet, And smile complacent as before: Hear me my palinode repeat, And give me back your heart once more.
Q. Horatius Flaccus (Horace), The Art of Poetry: To the Pisos (ed. C. Smart, Theodore Alois Buckley), line 189 (search)
of the tragic chorus, these happening, as from the nature of the thing they must, at the same time. new movements and a luxuriance to the ancient art, and strutting backward and forward, drew a length of train over the stage; thus likewise new notes were added to the severity of the lyre, and precipitate eloquence produced an unusual language [in the theater]: and the sentiments [of the chorus, then] expert in teaching useful things and prescient of futurity, differ hardly from the oracular Delphi.Sententia Delphis.Hor. Ars 219 Sententia is properly an aphorism taken from life, briefly representing either what is or what ought to be the conduct of it: "Oratio sumpta de vita, quae aut quid sit aut quid esse oporteat in vita, breviter ostendit." (Ad Herenn. Rhet. 1. iv.) These aphorisms are here mentioned, as constituting the peculiar praise and beauty of the chorus. This is finely observed, and was intended to convey an oblique censure on the practice of those poets, who stuff out ever
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