I could lie down like a tired child,

And weep away the life of care

Which I have borne, and yet must bear.

Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792-1822): Stanzas written in Dejection, near Naples. Stanza 4.

I am the very slave of circumstance

And impulse,—borne away with every breath!

Lord Byron 1788-1824: Sardanapalus. Act iv. Sc. 1.

In the lost battle,

Borne down by the flying,

Where mingles war's rattle

With groans of the dying.

Sir Walter Scott (1771-1832): Marmion. Canto iii. Stanza 11.

Besides, this Duncan

Hath borne his faculties so meek, hath been

So clear in his great office, that his virtues

Will plead like angels, trumpet-tongued, against

The deep damnation of his taking-off;

And pity, like a naked new-born babe,

Striding the blast, or heaven's cherubim, horsed

Upon the sightless couriers of the air,

Shall blow the horrid deed in every eye,

That tears shall drown the wind. I have no spur

To prick the sides of my intent, but only

Vaulting ambition, which o'erleaps itself,

And falls on the other.

William Shakespeare (1564-1616): Macbeth. Act i. Sc. 7.

And I have loved thee, Ocean! and my joy

Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be

Borne, like thy bubbles, onward; from a boy

I wantoned with thy breakers,

 .   .   .   .   .

And trusted to thy billows far and near,

And laid my hand upon thy mane,—as I do here.

Lord Byron 1788-1824: Childe Harold's Pilgrimage. Canto iv. Stanza 184.