I burn to set the imprison'd wranglers free,

And give them voice and utterance once again.

Now stir the fire, and close the shutters fast,

Let fall the curtains, wheel the sofa round,

And while the bubbling and loud-hissing urn

Throws up a steamy column, and the cups

That cheer but not inebriate wait on each,

So let us welcome peaceful evening in.

William Cowper (1731-1800): The Task. Book iv. The Winter Evening. Line 34.

Lord, in the morning thou shalt hear

My voice ascending high.

Isaac Watts (1674-1748): Psalm v.

All the world's a stage,

And all the men and women merely players.

They have their exits and their entrances;

And one man in his time plays many parts,

His acts being seven ages. At first the infant,

Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms.

And then the whining school-boy, with his satchel

And shining morning face, creeping like snail

Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,

Sighing like furnace, with a woful ballad

Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then a soldier,

Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard;

Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel,

Seeking the bubble reputation

Even in the cannon's mouth. And then the justice,

In fair round belly with good capon lined,

With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,

Full of wise saws and modern instances;

And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts

Into the lean and slipper'd pantaloon,

With spectacles on nose and pouch on side;

His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide

For his shrunk shank; and his big manly voice,

Turning again toward childish treble, pipes

And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,

That ends this strange eventful history,

Is second childishness and mere oblivion,

Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.

William Shakespeare (1564-1616): As You Like It. Act ii. Sc. 7.

O Cuckoo! shall I call thee bird,

Or but a wandering voice?

William Wordsworth (1770-1850): To the Cuckoo.

Is this a dagger which I see before me,

The handle toward my hand? Come, let me clutch thee.

I have thee not, and yet I see thee still.

Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible

To feeling as to sight? or art thou but

A dagger of the mind, a false creation,

Proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain?

William Shakespeare (1564-1616): Macbeth. Act ii. Sc. 1.

Two voices are there: one is of the sea,

One of the mountains,—each a mighty voice.

William Wordsworth (1770-1850): Thought of a Briton on the Subjugation of Switzerland.

Beware

Of entrance to a quarrel; but being in,

Bear 't that the opposed may beware of thee.

Give every man thy ear, but few thy voice;

Take each man's censure, but reserve thy judgment.

Costly thy habit as thy purse can buy,

But not express'd in fancy; rich, not gaudy;

For the apparel oft proclaims the man.

William Shakespeare (1564-1616): Hamlet. Act i. Sc. 3.

More safe I sing with mortal voice, unchang'd

To hoarse or mute, though fall'n on evil days,

On evil days though fall'n, and evil tongues.

John Milton (1608-1674): Paradise Lost. Book vii. Line 24.

They hear a voice in every wind,

And snatch a fearful joy.

Thomas Gray (1716-1771): On a Distant Prospect of Eton College. Stanza 4.

But sorrow return'd with the dawning of morn,

And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away.

Thomas Campbell (1777-1844): The Soldier's Dream.

My voice is still for war.

Gods! can a Roman senate long debate

Which of the two to choose, slavery or death?

Joseph Addison (1672-1719): Cato. Act ii. Sc. 1.

Joy is the sweet voice, joy the luminous cloud.

We in ourselves rejoice!

And thence flows all that charms or ear or sight,

All melodies the echoes of that voice,

All colours a suffusion from that light.

Samuel Taylor Coleridge (1772-1834): Dejection. An Ode. Stanza 5.

But to the hero, when his sword

Has won the battle for the free,

Thy voice sounds like a prophet's word;

And in its hollow tones are heard

The thanks of millions yet to be.

Alfred Bunn (1790-1860): Marco Bozzaris.

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.

Memory, the warder of the brain.

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

I'll speak in a monstrous little voice.

William Shakespeare (1564-1616): A Midsummer Night's Dream. Act i. Sc. 2.

More safe I sing with mortal voice, unchang'd

To hoarse or mute, though fall'n on evil days,

On evil days though fall'n, and evil tongues.

John Milton (1608-1674): Paradise Lost. Book vii. Line 24.

Ever of thee I'm fondly dreaming,

Thy gentle voice my spirit can cheer.

George Linley (1798-1865): Ever of Thee.

As sweet and musical

As bright Apollo's lute, strung with his hair;

And when Love speaks, the voice of all the gods

Makes heaven drowsy with the harmony.

William Shakespeare (1564-1616): Love's Labour's Lost. Act iv. Sc. 3.

Stern Daughter of the Voice of God!

William Wordsworth (1770-1850): Ode to Duty.

The still small voice of gratitude.

Thomas Gray (1716-1771): Ode for Music. V. Line 8.

E'en from the tomb the voice of nature cries,

E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires.

Thomas Gray (1716-1771): Elegy in a Country Churchyard. Stanza 23.

Two voices are there: one is of the sea,

One of the mountains,—each a mighty voice.

William Wordsworth (1770-1850): Thought of a Briton on the Subjugation of Switzerland.

There was a place in childhood that I remember well,

And there a voice of sweetest tone bright fairy tales did tell.

Samuel Lover (1797-1868): My Mother dear.

Oh for a blast of that dread horn

On Fontarabian echoes borne!

Sir Walter Scott (1771-1832): Marmion. Canto vi. Stanza 33.

'T is the voice of the sluggard; I heard him complain,

"You have wak'd me too soon, I must slumber again."

Isaac Watts (1674-1748): The Sluggard.

The oracles are dumb,

No voice or hideous hum

Runs through the arched roof in words deceiving.

Apollo from his shrine

Can no more divine,

With hollow shriek the steep of Delphos leaving.

No nightly trance or breathed spell

Inspires the pale-eyed priest from the prophetic cell.

John Milton (1608-1674): Hymn on Christ's Nativity. Line 173.

He ceas'd; but left so pleasing on their ear

His voice, that list'ning still they seem'd to hear.

Alexander Pope (1688-1744): The Odyssey of Homer. Book xiii. Line 1.

In law, what plea so tainted and corrupt

But being season'd with a gracious voice

Obscures the show of evil?

William Shakespeare (1564-1616): The Merchant of Venice. Act iii. Sc. 2.

The Angel ended, and in Adam's ear

So charming left his voice, that he awhile

Thought him still speaking, still stood fix'd to hear.

John Milton (1608-1674): Paradise Lost. Book viii. Line 1.

Left that command

Sole daughter of his voice.

John Milton (1608-1674): Paradise Lost. Book ix. Line 652.

But to the hero, when his sword

Has won the battle for the free,

Thy voice sounds like a prophet's word;

And in its hollow tones are heard

The thanks of millions yet to be.

Alfred Bunn (1790-1860): Marco Bozzaris.

Sweet is every sound,

Sweeter thy voice, but every sound is sweet;

Myriads of rivulets hurrying thro' the lawn,

The moan of doves in immemorial elms,

And murmuring of innumerable bees.

Alfred Tennyson (1809-1892): The Princess. Part vii. Line 203.

But oh for the touch of a vanish'd hand,

And the sound of a voice that is still!

Alfred Tennyson (1809-1892): Break, break, break.

Such souls,

Whose sudden visitations daze the world,

Vanish like lightning, but they leave behind

A voice that in the distance far away

Wakens the slumbering ages.

Sir Henry Taylor (1800-18—): Philip Van Artevelde. Part i. Act i. Sc. 7.

For it stirs the blood in an old man's heart,

And makes his pulses fly,

To catch the thrill of a happy voice

And the light of a pleasant eye.

Nathaniel P Willis (1817-1867): Saturday Afternoon.

Her voice was ever soft,

Gentle, and low,—an excellent thing in woman.

William Shakespeare (1564-1616): King Lear. Act v. Sc. 3.

The watch-dog's voice that bay'd the whispering wind,

And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind.

Oliver Goldsmith (1728-1774): The Deserted Village. Line 121.

Though love repine, and reason chafe,

There came a voice without reply,—

"'T is man's perdition to be safe

When for the truth he ought to die."

Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803-1882): Sacrifice.

I hear a voice you cannot hear,

Which says I must not stay;

I see a hand you cannot see,

Which beckons me away.

Thomas Tickell (1686-1740): Colin and Lucy.