Careful Words

wound (n.)

wound (v.)

wound (adj.)

Earth felt the wound; and Nature from her seat,

Sighing through all her works, gave signs of woe

That all was lost.

John Milton (1608-1674): Paradise Lost. Book ix. Line 782.

  That chastity of honour which felt a stain like a wound.

Edmund Burke (1729-1797): Reflections on the Revolution in France. Vol. iii. p. 332.

  Honour pricks me on. Yea, but how if honour prick me off when I come on,—how then? Can honour set to a leg? no: or an arm? no: or take away the grief of a wound? no. Honour hath no skill in surgery, then? no. What is honour? a word. What is in that word honour; what is that honour? air. A trim reckoning! Who hath it? he that died o' Wednesday. Doth he feel it? no. Doth he hear it? no. 'T is insensible, then? yea, to the dead. But will it not live with the living? no. Why? detraction will not suffer it. Therefore I 'll none of it. Honour is a mere scutcheon. And so ends my catechism.

William Shakespeare (1564-1616): King Henry IV. Part I. Act v. Sc. 1.

But from the hoop's bewitching round,

Her very shoe has power to wound.

Edward Moore (1712-1757): The Spider and the Bee. Fable x.

Put a tongue

In every wound of Caesar that should move

The stones of Rome to rise and mutiny.

William Shakespeare (1564-1616): Julius Caesar. Act iii. Sc. 2.

And the imperial votaress passed on,

In maiden meditation, fancy-free.

Yet mark'd I where the bolt of Cupid fell:

It fell upon a little western flower,

Before milk-white, now purple with love's wound,

And maidens call it love-in-idleness.

William Shakespeare (1564-1616): A Midsummer Night's Dream. Act ii. Sc. 1.

He jests at scars that never felt a wound.

But, soft! what light through yonder window breaks?

It is the east, and Juliet is the sun.

William Shakespeare (1564-1616): Romeo and Juliet. Act ii. Sc. 2.

Put a tongue

In every wound of Caesar that should move

The stones of Rome to rise and mutiny.

William Shakespeare (1564-1616): Julius Caesar. Act iii. Sc. 2.

No eye to watch, and no tongue to wound us,

All earth forgot, and all heaven around us.

Thomas Moore (1779-1852): Come o'er the Sea.

Damn with faint praise, assent with civil leer,

And without sneering teach the rest to sneer;

Willing to wound, and yet afraid to strike,

Just hint a fault, and hesitate dislike.

Alexander Pope (1688-1744): Epistle to Dr. Arbuthnot. Prologue to the Satires. Line 201.

Satire should, like a polished razor keen,

Wound with a touch that's scarcely felt or seen.

Lady Mary Wortley Montagu (1690-1762): To the Imitator of the First Satire of Horace. Book ii.