Written by
Victor Hugo |
("Ah! je le tiens enfin.")
{CROMWELL, Act II., October, 1827.}
THURLOW communicates the intention of Parliament to
offer CROMWELL the crown.
CROMWELL. And is it mine? And have my feet at length
Attained the summit of the rock i' the sand?
THURLOW. And yet, my lord, you have long reigned.
CROM. Nay, nay!
Power I have 'joyed, in sooth, but not the name.
Thou smilest, Thurlow. Ah, thou little know'st
What hole it is Ambition digs i' th' heart
What end, most seeming empty, is the mark
For which we fret and toil and dare! How hard
With an unrounded fortune to sit down!
Then, what a lustre from most ancient times
Heaven has flung o'er the sacred head of kings!
King—Majesty—what names of power! No king,
And yet the world's high arbiter! The thing
Without the word! no handle to the blade!
Away—the empire and the name are one!
Alack! thou little dream'st how grievous 'tis,
Emerging from the crowd, and at the top
Arrived, to feel that there is something still
Above our heads; something, nothing! no matter—
That word is everything.
LEITCH RITCHIE.
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Written by
Martha Collins |
Draw a line.
Write a line.
There.
Stay in line, hold the line, a glance
between the lines is fine but don't
turn corners, cross, cut in, go over
or out, between two points of no
return's a line of flight, between
two points of view's a line of vision.
But a line of thought is rarely
straight, an open line's no party
line, however fine your point.
A line of fire communicates, but drop
your weapons and drop your line,
consider the shortest distance from x
to y, let x be me, let y be you.
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