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PYTHON FOR DATA ANALYSIS
The Ultimate And Definitive
Manual To Learn Data Science
And Coding With Python. Master
The Basics Of Machine Learning,
To Clean Code And Improve
Artificial Intelligence
© COPYRIGHT 2021 – ALL RIGHTS
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Death. Time, hold thy peace, and shake thy slow-pac’d sand;
Thine idle minutes make no way:
Thy glass exceeds her hour, or else doth stand,
I cannot hold, I cannot stay.
Surcease thy pleading, and enlarge my hand,
I surfeit with too long delay:
This brisk this bold-fac’d light
Doth burn too bright;
Darkness adorns my throne, my day is darkest night.
Time. Great Prince of darkness! hold thy needless hand,
Thy captive’s fast and cannot flee:
What arm can rescue? who can countermand?
What pow’r can set thy pris’ner free?
Or if they could; what close, what foreign land
Can hide that head that flees from thee?
But if her harmless light
Offend thy sight
What need’st thou snatch at noon, what must be thine at
night?
It is true that here the reply wants one of having the same
number of syllables as the question—but still the constant return of
the same quantity for each speaker is disgusting to all unprejudiced
ears. You will tell me that it is in the high gusto of the antique, and
that the feet are trochaics—I can only reply, that hard words cannot
convince me contrary to reason, and if a proper effect is not
produced, it is of very little consequence to me whether the
authority is brought from Greece or Siberia. Horace’s often-quoted
Pallida mors, &c. was perhaps never better translated than at the
end of the fourth stanza.
The ninth hieroglyphic will put you in mind of the poems that are
squeezed or stretched into the form of axes, altars, and wings——
but if you will attend to the matter, and not the form, you will find it
excellent——to write this properly requires some care.
Behold
How short a span
Was long enough of old
To measure out the life of man;
In those well-temper’d days, his time was then
Survey’d, cast up, and found but threescore years and ten!
Alas!
And what is that?
They come, and slide, and pass,
Before my pen can tell thee what.
The posts of Time are swift, which having run
Their sev’n short stages o’er, their short-liv’d task is done.
Our days
Begun, we lend
To sleep, to antick plays
And toys, until the first stage end:
12 waining moons, twice 5 times told, we give
To unrecover’d loss: we rather breathe than live.
We spend
A ten years breath
Before we apprehend
What ’tis to live, or fear a Death:
Our childish dreams are fill’d with painted joys
Which please our sense awhile, and waking prove but toys!
How vain
How wretched is
Poor man, that doth remain
A slave to such a state as this!
His days are short, at longest; few at most;
They are but bad at best; yet lavish’d out, or lost.
They be
The secret springs
That make our minutes flee
On wheels more swift than eagle’s wings!
Our Life’s a clock, and ev’ry gasp of breath
Breathes forth a warning grief, till Time shall strike a Death!
How soon
Our new-born light
Attains to full-ag’d noon!
And this, how soon to grey-hair’d night!
We spring, we bud, we blossom and we blast
E’er we can count our days, our days they flee so fast!
They end
When scarce begun;
And e’er we apprehend
That we begin to live, our life is done:
Man count thy days; and if they fly too fast
For thy dull thoughts to count, count ev’ry day the last.
Methinks Quarles’s ghost is at my elbow, which will not be
appeased unless I remark that the first lines of each stanza make a
verse, being the text on which the poem is a comment.
Behold, alas! our days we spend;
How vain they be, how soon they end!
This is a kind of false wit once much in request. Jarvis, the translator
of Don Quixote, calls it glossing—upon what authority I know not. In
the first chapter of the second book of the second volume may be
found a text and gloss—with this difference from Quarles’s, that the
text is introduced at the end of the stanza and not at the beginning.
It is impossible to avoid smiling at the pains he must have taken
to preserve the form of the stanza—in the third he is obliged to have
the assistance of figures, or his line would have been too long; and
after all his trouble there must be some for the reader before he has
calculated how much “12 moons, twice 5 times told,” are——in the
rest, to say the truth, it is not so apparent. If this pyramidical stanza
prevents you from attending to the poetry, it is easily put in another
—of the two first lines make one; and the false wit immediately
vanishes.—I hope Quarles’s ghost vanished before I proposed the
alteration.
I have, like a prudent caterer, reserved the best thing for the last.
It is the twelfth emblem of the third book. The subject of the print is
a figure trying to escape from the Divine vengeance which is
pursuing in thunders: the motto——O that thou wouldst hide me in
the grave, that thou wouldst keep me in secret until thy wrath be
past! Upon this hint he has produced the following excellent poem.
Ah! whither shall I fly? what path untrod
Shall I seek out to ’scape the flaming rod
Of my offended, of my angry God?
Where shall I sojourn? what kind sea will hide
My head from thunder? where shall I abide,
Until his flames be quench’d or laid aside?
What, if my feet should take their hasty flight,
And seek protection in the shades of night?
Alas! no shades can blind the God of light.
What, if my soul should take the wings of day,
And find some desert? if she spring away
The wings of vengeance clip as fast as they.
What, if some solid rock should entertain
My frighted soul? can solid rocks restrain
The stroke of Justice and not cleave in twain?
Nor sea, nor shade, nor shield, nor rock, nor cave,
Nor silent deserts, nor the sullen grave,
Where flame-ey’d fury means to smite, can save.
Tis vain to flee; ’till gentle mercy shew
Her better eye; the farther off we go,
The swing of Justice deals the mightier blow.
Th’ ingenuous child, corrected, doth not flie
His angry mother’s hand, but clings more nigh,
And quenches with his tears her flaming eye.
Great God! there is no safety here below;
Thou art my fortress, thou that seem’st my foe,
’Tis thou that strik’st the stroke, must guard the blow.
Six stanzas, which though very good, yet being of less merit than
the rest are omitted. It is obvious that he had the 139th psalm in his
eye, of which he has made great use. The alarm at the beginning—
the searching all nature for shelter—the impossibility of being hid
from the author of nature—and the acquiescing at last in what was
unavoidable, are grand and natural ideas. The motion of the wings
of vengeance—and the recapitulation of the places where protection
was fought in vain—are instances of expression rarely met with. But
what praise is sufficient for the simile in the eighth stanza? To say
only that it is apposite and beautiful, comes very short of my
sensations when I read it. Let me confess honestly that I think it one
of the noblest instances of the sublime pathetic! As a part of a
religious poem it is proper, in a high degree; the scripture frequently
considering our connection with the Almighty as that of children with
a parent.—As a pictoresque image it is distinct, natural, and
affecting.—But to remark all the beauties of this poem would be to
comment on every stanza.——You will have more pleasure in finding
them out yourself.
Now what think you, is not this rather too good to be lost? Was it
from never reading Quarles, or taking his character from common
report, that Pope considered his productions as the very bathos of
poetry? Poor Quarles! thou hast had many enemies, and art now
forgotten. But thou hast at last found a friend—not equal, indeed, to
the task of turning a tide that has been flowing for a hundred years
against thee—not equal to his wishes for giving thee and every
neglected genius his due share of reputation—but barely capable of
laying the first stone of thy temple of fame, which he leaves to be
compleated by abler and by stronger hands!
Farewel.
P. S. I had forgot to inform you that these emblems were imitated
in Latin by one Herman Hugo, a Jesuit. The first edition of them was
in 1623, soon after the appearance of Quarles; and the book was
reprinted for the ninth time in 1676, which last is the date of the
copy in my possession. How many more editions there have been, I
know not. He makes no acknowledgement to Quarles, and speaks of
his own work as original. As a specimen of his manner, take the
following, which is intended as an imitation of “Ah whither shall I
fly?”
Quis mihi securis dabit hospita tecta latebris?
Tecta, quibus dextræ server ab igne tuæ?
Heu! tuus ante oculos quoties furor ille recursat,
Nulla mihi toties fida sat antra reor.
Tunc ego secretas, umbracula frondea, sylvas,
Lustràque solivagis opto relicta feris.
Tunc ego vel mediis timidum caput abdere terris,
Aut maris exesâ condere rupe velim, &c.
It reads but poorly after the other, though I have given you the best
of it. He afterwards by degrees quits his subject, runs into stuff
about Cain and Jonah, and has entirely omitted the simile.
F I N I S.
Transcriber’s Notes:
Blank pages have been removed.
Silently corrected typographical errors.
Spelling and hyphenation variations made consistent.
Page 87, end of letter XXVII: The symbol appears to be U+1FDE Greek Dasia (rough
breathing diacritical mark for an ‘h’ sound before a vowel) and Oxia (acute accent).
Formatting of a dialogue in letter XXX made more consistent.
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