The imitation of this beautiful simile by _Ariosto, canto 1. st. 42_. falls short of the original. It is also in part imitated by Pope[2].
_Lucetta_. I do not seek to quench your love’s hot fire, But qualify the fires extreme rage, Lest it should burn above the bounds of reason.
_Julia_. The more thou damm’st it up, the more it burns: The current, that with gentle murmur glides, Thou know’st, being stopp’d, impatiently doth rage; But when his fair course is not hindered, He makes sweet music with th’ enamel’d stones Giving a gentle kiss to every sedge He overtaketh in his pilgrimage. And so by many winding nooks he strays With willing sport, to the wild ocean. Then let me go, and hinder not my course; I’ll be as patient as a gentle stream, And make a pastime of each weary step Till the last step have brought me to my love; And there I’ll rest, as, after much turmoil, A blessed soul doth in Elysium.
_Two Gentlemen of Verona, act 2. sc. 10._
-------- She never told her love, But let concealment, like a worm i’ th’ bud, Feed on her damask cheek: she pin’d in thought; And with a green and yellow melancholy, She sat like Patience on a monument, Smiling at Grief. _Twelfth-Night, act 2. sc. 6._
_York._ Then, as I said, the Duke, great Bolingbroke, Mounted upon a hot and fiery steed, Which his aspiring rider seem’d to know, With slow but stately pace, kept on his course: While all tongues cry’d, God save thee, Bolingbroke.
_Duchess._ Alas! poor Richard, where rides he the while?
_York._ As in a theatre, the eyes of men, After a well-grac’d actor leaves the stage, Are idly bent on him that enters next, Thinking his prattle to be tedious: Even so, or with much more contempt, mens eyes Did scowl on Richard; no man cry’d, God save him! No joyful tongue gave him his welcome home; But dust was thrown upon his sacred head; Which with such gentle sorrow he shook off, His face still combating with tears and smiles, The badges of his grief and patience; That had not God, for some strong purpose, steel’d The hearts of men, they must perforce have melted; And barbarism itself have pitied him.
_Northumberland._ How doth my son and brother? Thou tremblest, and the whiteness in thy cheek Is apter than thy tongue to tell thy errand. Even such a man, so faint, so spiritless, So dull, so dead in look, so wo-be-gone, Drew Priam’s curtain in the dead of night, And would have told him, half his Troy was burn’d; But Priam found the fire, ere he his tongue: And I my Percy’s death, ere thou report’st it. _Second Part Henry_ IV. _act 1. sc. 3._