But this too fail'd: a Friend his freedom gave,
And sent him help the threat'ning world to brave;
Gave solid counsel what to seek or flee,

But still would stranger to his person be:
In vain! the truth determin'd to explore,

He trac'd the Friend whom he had wrong'd before.

This was too much; both aided and advis'd
By one who shunn'd him, pitied, and despis’d:
He bore it not; 'twas a deciding stroke,
And on his reason like a torrent broke;
In dreadful stillness he appear'd awhile,
With vacant horror and a ghastly smile;
Then rose at once into the frantic rage,

That force controll'd not, nor could love assuage.

Friends now appear'd, but in the Man was seen The angry Maniac, with vindictive mien; Too late their pity gave to care and skill The hurried mind and ever-wandering will; Unnotic'd pass'd all time, and not a ray Of reason broke on his benighted way; But now he spurn'd the straw in pure disdain, And now laugh'd loudly at the clinking chain.

Then as its wrath subsided, by degrees
The mind sank slowly to infantine ease;
To playful folly, and to causeless joy,
Speech without aim, and without end, employ;
He drew fantastic figures on the wall,
And gave some wild relation of them all;
With brutal shape he join'd the human face,
And idiot smiles approv'd the motley race.

Harmless at length th' unhappy man was found,

The spirit settled, but the reason drown'd;
And all the dreadful tempest died away,
To the dull stillness of the misty day.

And now his freedom he attain'd-if free,
The lost to reason, truth, and hope, can be;
His friends, or wearied with the charge, or sure
The harmless wretch was now beyond a cure,
Gave him to wander where he pleas'd, and find
His own resources for the eager mind:
The playful children of the place he meets,
Playful with them he rambles through the streets;
In all they need, his stronger arm he lends,
And his lost mind to these approving friends.

That gentle Maid, whom once the Youth had lov'd, Is now with mild religious pity mov'd;

Kindly she chides his boyish flights, while he
Will for a moment fix'd and pensive be;
And as she trembling speaks, his lively eyes
Explore her looks, he listens to her sighs;
Charm'd by her voice, th' harmonious sounds invade
His clouded mind, and for a time persuade :
Like a pleas'd Infant, who has newly caught
From the maternal glance a gleam of thought;
He stands enrapt, the half-known voice to hear,
And starts, half-conscious, at the falling tear.

Rarely from town, nor then unwatch'd, he goes, In darker mood, as if to hide his woes;

Returning soon, he with impatience seeks

His youthful friends, and shouts, and sings, and speaks ;

Speaks a wild speech with action all as wild-
The children's leader, and himself a child;
He spins their top, or, at their bidding, bends
His back, while o'er it leap his laughing friends;
Simple and weak, he acts the boy once more,
And heedless children call him Silly Shore.

༄།་

If I do not have pity upon her, I'm a villain;

If I do not love her, I am a Jew.

Much Ado About Nothing, Act II. Scene 2,

Women are soft, mild, pitiable, flexible,

But thou art obdurate, flinty, rough, remorseless.

Henry VI. Act I. Scene 4.

He must be told of it, and he shall, the office
Becomes a Woman best; I'll take it upon me;
If I prove honey-mouth'd, let my tongue blister.

Winter's Tale, Act II. Scene 2.

Disguise-I see thou art a wickedness.

Twelfth Night, Act II. Scene 2.