But 'midst the crowd, the hum, the shock of men,

To hear, to see, to feel, and to possess,

And roam along, the world's tired denizen,

With none who bless us, none whom we can bless.

Lord Byron 1788-1824: Childe Harold's Pilgrimage. Canto ii. Stanza 26.

Teach me to feel another's woe,

To hide the fault I see;

That mercy I to others show,

That mercy show to me.

Alexander Pope (1688-1744): The Universal Prayer. Stanza 10.

All love is sweet,

Given or returned. Common as light is love,

And its familiar voice wearies not ever.

 .   .   .   .   .

They who inspire it most are fortunate,

As I am now; but those who feel it most

Are happier still.

Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792-1822): Prometheus Unbound. Act ii. Sc. 5.

I feel like one

Who treads alone

Some banquet-hall deserted,

Whose lights are fled,

Whose garlands dead,

And all but he departed.

Thomas Moore (1779-1852): Oft in the Stilly Night.

He that lacks time to mourn, lacks time to mend.

Eternity mourns that. 'T is an ill cure

For life's worst ills, to have no time to feel them.

Where sorrow's held intrusive and turned out,

There wisdom will not enter, nor true power,

Nor aught that dignifies humanity.

Sir Henry Taylor (1800-18—): Philip Van Artevelde. Part i. Act i. Sc. 5.

And feel that I am happier than I know.

John Milton (1608-1674): Paradise Lost. Book viii. Line 282.

But, spite of all the criticising elves,

Those who would make us feel—must feel themselves.

Charles Churchill (1731-1764): The Rosciad. Line 961.

Take physic, pomp;

Expose thyself to feel what wretches feel.

William Shakespeare (1564-1616): King Lear. Act iii. Sc. 4.

But 'midst the crowd, the hum, the shock of men,

To hear, to see, to feel, and to possess,

And roam along, the world's tired denizen,

With none who bless us, none whom we can bless.

Lord Byron 1788-1824: Childe Harold's Pilgrimage. Canto ii. Stanza 26.

Men

Can counsel and speak comfort to that grief

Which they themselves not feel.

William Shakespeare (1564-1616): Much Ado about Nothing. Act v. Sc. 1.

The fear o' hell's a hangman's whip

To haud the wretch in order;

But where ye feel your honour grip,

Let that aye be your border.

Robert Burns (1759-1796): Epistle to a Young Friend.