Fallen, fallen, fallen, fallen,

Fallen from his high estate,

And welt'ring in his blood;

Deserted, at his utmost need,

By those his former bounty fed,

On the bare earth expos'd he lies,

With not a friend to close his eyes.

John Dryden (1631-1701): Alexander's Feast. Line 77.

And raw in fields the rude militia swarms,

Mouths without hands; maintain'd at vast expense,

In peace a charge, in war a weak defence;

Stout once a month they march, a blustering band,

And ever but in times of need at hand.

John Dryden (1631-1701): Cymon and Iphigenia. Line 400.

A good turn at need,

At first or last, shall be assur'd of meed.

Du Bartas (1544-1590): First Week, Sixth Day.

The sounding cataract

Haunted me like a passion; the tall rock,

The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood,

Their colours and their forms, were then to me

An appetite,—a feeling and a love,

That had no need of a remoter charm

By thoughts supplied, nor any interest

Unborrowed from the eye.

William Wordsworth (1770-1850): Lines composed a few miles above Tintern Abbey.

I had most need of blessing, and "Amen"

Stuck in my throat.

William Shakespeare (1564-1616): Macbeth. Act ii. Sc. 2.