Come one, come all! this rock shall fly
From its firm base as soon as I.
1524
SCOTT:  Lady of the Lake, Canto v., St. 10.

=Rod.=

His rod revers’d,
And backward mutters of dissevering power.
1525
MILTON:  Comus, Line 816.

A light to guide, a rod
To check the erring, and reprove.
1526
WORDSWORTH:  Ode to Duty.

=Roman.=

I had rather be a dog, and bay the moon,
Than such a Roman.
1527
SHAKS.:  Jul.  Caesar, Act iv., Sc. 3.

This was the noblest Roman of them all. 1528 SHAKS.:  Jul.  Caesar, Act v., Sc. 5.

=Romance.=

Romances paint at full length people’s wooings, But only give a bust of marriages. 1529 BYRON:  Don Juan, Canto iii., St. 8.

Lady of the Mere,
Sole-sitting by the shores of old romance.
1530
WORDSWORTH:  A Narrow Girdle of Rough Stones and Crags.

=Rome.=

To the glory that was Greece
And the grandeur that was Rome.
1531
EDGAR A. POE:  To Helen.

=Rose.=

At Christmas I no more desire a rose Than wish a snow in May’s new-fangled mirth; But like of each thing that in season grows. 1532 SHAKS.:  Love’s L. Lost, Act i., Sc. 1.

The rose looks fair, but fairer we it deem, For that sweet odor which doth in it live. 1533 SHAKS.:  Sonnet liv.

You love the roses—­so do I. I wish
The sky would rain down roses, as they rain
From off the shaken bush.
1534
GEORGE ELIOT:  Spanish Gypsy, Bk. iii.

As though a rose should shut, and be a bud again. 1535 KEATS:  Eve of St. Agnes, St. 27.

The rose saith in the dewy morn,
I am most fair;
Yet all my loveliness is born
Upon a thorn.
1536
CHRISTINA G. ROSSETTI:  Consider the Lilies of the Field.

Strew on her roses, roses,
  And never a spray of yew! 
In quiet she reposes;
  Ah, would that I did too.
1537
MATTHEW ARNOLD:  Requiescat.

=Rousseau.=

The self-torturing sophist, wild Rousseau,
The apostle of affliction—­he, who threw
Enchantment over passion, and from woe
Wrung overwhelming eloquence.
1538
BYRON:  Ch.  Harold, Canto iii., St. 77.

=Royalty.=

O wretched state of Kings!  O doleful fate! 
Greatness misnamed, in misery only great! 
Could men but know the endless woe it brings,
The wise would die before they would be Kings. 
Think what a King must do!
1539
R.H.  STODDARD:  The King’s Bell.

=Ruin.=

Where my high steeples whilom used to stand,
On which the lordly falcon wont to tower,
There now is but an heap of lime and sand,
For the screech-owl to build her baleful bower.
1540
SPENSER:  Ruins of Time, Line 127.

On Prague’s proud arch the fires of ruin glow, His blood-dyed waters murmuring far below. 1541 CAMPBELL:  Pl. of Hope, Pt. i., Line 385.