All flowers will droop in the absence of the sun that waked their sweets.
Roused by the lash of his own stubborn tail our lion now will foreign foes assail.
Revenge, revenge, Timotheus cries, See the Furies arise!
And plenty makes us poor.
Him of the western dome, whose weighty sense Flows in fit words and heavenly eloquence.
The propriety of thoughts and words, which are the hidden beauties of a play, are but confusedly judged in the vehemence of action.