Common Thistle.... Misanthropy.

Who would seek or prize Delights that end in aching? Who would trust to ties That every hour are breaking? Better far to be In utter darkness lying, Than be blest with light, and see That light for ever flying. All that’s bright must fade,— The brightest still the fleetest, All that’s sweet was made But to be lost when sweetest! Moore.

I had much rather see A crested dragon or a basilisk, Both are less poison to my eyes and nature. Dryden.

Hate all, curse all: show charity to none; But let the famished flesh slide from the bone, Ere thou relieve the beggar: give to dogs What thou deniest to men; let prisons swallow them, Debts wither them to nothing: be men like blasted woods, And may diseases lick up their false bloods. Shakspeare.

I am Misanthropos, and hate mankind: For thy part, I do wish thou wert a dog, That I might love thee something. Shakspeare.

I’ll keep my way alone, and burn away— Evil or good I care not, so I spread Tremendous desolation on my road: I’ll be remembered as huge meteors are; From the dismay they scatter. Proctor.

I see thou art implacable, more deaf To prayers than winds and seas; yet winds and seas Are reconciled at length, and sea to shore: Thy anger, unappeasable, still rages Eternal tempest never to be calm. Milton.

Warped by the world in disappointment’s school. In words too wise, in conduct there a fool; Too firm to yield, and far too proud to stoop, Doomed by his very virtues for a dupe, He cursed those virtues as the cause of ill, And not the traitors who betrayed him still; Nor deemed that gifts bestowed on better men, Had left him joy, and means to give again. Feared, shunned, belied, ere youth had lost her force, He hated men too much to feel remorse, And thought the voice of wrath a sacred call, To pay the injuries of some on all. Byron.

He has outsoared the shadow of our night; Envy and calumny, and hate and pain, And that unrest which men miscall delight, Can touch him not and torture not again; From the contagion of the world’s slow stain He is secure, and now can never mourn A heart grown cold, a head grown gray in vain; Nor, when the spirit’s self has ceased to burn, With sparkless ashes load an unlamented urn. Shelley.

They too, who mid the scornful thoughts that dwell In his rich fancy, tinging all its streams, As if the Star of Bitterness which fell On earth of old, and touched them with its beams, Can track a spirit, which, though driven to hate, From Nature’s hands came kind, affectionate; And which, even now, struck as it is with blight, Comes out, at times, in love’s own native light— How gladly all, who’ve watched these struggling rays Of a bright, ruined spirit through his lays, Would here inquire, as from his own frank lips, What desolating grief, what wrongs had driven That noble nature into cold eclipse— Like some fair orb, that, once a sun in heaven, And born, not only to surprise, but cheer With warmth and lustre all within its sphere, Is now so quenched, that, of its grandeur, lasts Naught but the wide cold shadow which it casts! Moore.