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peck.classics 93,125 posts

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Replying to@1GzrxS…SaJo

He spoke, and rising hurl’d his forceful dart, Which, driven by Pallas, pierced a vital part; Full in his face it enter’d, and betwixt The nose and eye-ball the proud Lycian fix’d; Crash’d all his jaws, and cleft the tongue within, Till the bright point look’d out beneath the chin. Headlong he falls, his helmet knocks the ground: Earth groans beneath him, and his arms resound; The starting coursers tremble with affright; The soul indignant seeks the realms of night.

Replying to@1LXf2y…dbip

“Give me, great Jove! to punish lawless lust, And lay the Trojan gasping in the dust: Destroy the aggressor, aid my righteous cause, Avenge the breach of hospitable laws! Let this example future times reclaim, And guard from wrong fair friendship’s holy name,” He said, and poised in air the javelin sent, Through Paris’ shield the forceful weapon went, His corslet pierces, and his garment rends, And glancing downward, near his flank descends. The wary Trojan, bending from the blow, Eludes the death, and disappoints his foe: But fierce Atrides waved his sword, and strook Full on his casque: the crested helmet shook; The brittle steel, unfaithful to his hand, Broke short: the fragments glitter’d on the sand. The raging warrior to the spacious skies Raised his upbraiding voice and angry eyes: “Then is it vain in Jove himself to trust? And is it thus the gods assist the just? When crimes provoke us, Heaven success denies; The dart falls harmless, and the falchion flies.” Furious he said, and towards the Grecian crew (Seized by the crest) the unhappy warrior drew; Struggling he followed, while the embroider’d thong That tied his helmet, dragg’d the chief along. Then had his ruin crown’d Atrides’ joy, But Venus trembled for the prince of Troy: Unseen she came, and burst the golden band; And left an empty helmet in his hand. The casque, enraged, amidst the Greeks he threw; The Greeks with smiles the polish’d trophy view. Then, as once more he lifts the deadly dart, In thirst of vengeance, at his rival’s heart; The queen of love her favour’d champion shrouds (For gods can all things) in a veil of clouds. Raised from the field the panting youth she led, And gently laid him on the bridal bed, With pleasing sweets his fainting sense renews, And all the dome perfumes with heavenly dews. Meantime the brightest of the female kind, The matchless Helen, o’er the walls reclined; To her, beset with Trojan beauties, came, In borrow’d form, the laughter-loving dame.

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Replying to@1DGQ5C…k8da

It was clear to him that the experimental method was the only method by which one could arrive at any scientific analysis of the passions; and certainly Dorian Gray was a subject made to his hand, and seemed to promise rich and fruitful results. His sudden mad love for Sibyl Vane was a psychological phenomenon of no small interest. There was no doubt that curiosity had much to do with it, curiosity and the desire for new experiences, yet it was not a simple, but rather a very complex passion. What there was in it of the purely sensuous instinct of boyhood had been transformed by the workings of the imagination, changed into something that seemed to the lad himself to be remote from sense, and was for that very reason all the more dangerous. It was the passions about whose origin we deceived ourselves that tyrannized most strongly over us. Our weakest motives were those of whose nature we were conscious. It often happened that when we thought we were experimenting on others we were really experimenting on ourselves.

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Replying to#1406c740

We then turned over the book together, and I endeavored to explain to him the purpose of the printing, and the meaning of the few pictures that were in it. Thus I soon engaged his interest; and from that we went to jabbering the best we could about the various outer sights to be seen in this famous town. Soon I proposed a social smoke; and, producing his pouch and tomahawk, he quietly offered me a puff. And then we sat exchanging puffs from that wild pipe of his, and keeping it regularly passing between us.

Replying to@1FeAEv…KBaX

Now with full force the yielding horn he bends, Drawn to an arch, and joins the doubling ends; Close to his breast he strains the nerve below, Till the barb’d points approach the circling bow; The impatient weapon whizzes on the wing; Sounds the tough horn, and twangs the quivering string.

Replying to#ced6cc54

A Sag Harbor ship visited his father’s bay, and Queequeg sought a passage to Christian lands. But the ship, having her full complement of seamen, spurned his suit; and not all the King his father’s influence could prevail. But Queequeg vowed a vow. Alone in his canoe, he paddled off to a distant strait, which he knew the ship must pass through when she quitted the island. On one side was a coral reef; on the other a low tongue of land, covered with mangrove thickets that grew out into the water. Hiding his canoe, still afloat, among these thickets, with its prow seaward, he sat down in the stern, paddle low in hand; and when the ship was gliding by, like a flash he darted out; gained her side; with one backward dash of his foot capsized and sank his canoe; climbed up the chains; and throwing himself at full length upon the deck, grappled a ring-bolt there, and swore not to let it go, though hacked in pieces.

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Replying to@19E63Q…mQoU

As Queequeg’s Ramadan, or Fasting and Humiliation, was to continue all day, I did not choose to disturb him till towards night-fall; for I cherish the greatest respect towards everybody’s religious obligations, never mind how comical, and could not find it in my heart to undervalue even a congregation of ants worshipping a toad-stool; or those other creatures in certain parts of our earth, who with a degree of footmanism quite unprecedented in other planets, bow down before the torso of a deceased landed proprietor merely on account of the inordinate possessions yet owned and rented in his name.

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Replying to@1GzrxS…SaJo

“But thou (though Pallas urged thy frantic deed), Whose spear ill-fated makes a goddess bleed, Know thou, whoe’er with heavenly power contends, Short is his date, and soon his glory ends; From fields of death when late he shall retire, No infant on his knees shall call him sire. Strong as thou art, some god may yet be found, To stretch thee pale and gasping on the ground; Thy distant wife, Ægialé the fair,[151] Starting from sleep with a distracted air, Shall rouse thy slaves, and her lost lord deplore, The brave, the great, the glorious now no more!”