DANCING DANCING
Imperial Waltz! imported from the Rhine (Famed for the growth of pedigrees and wine), Long be thine import from all duty free, And hock itself be less esteem'd than thee. Byron—The Waltz. L. 29. </poem>
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Endearing Waltz—to thy more melting tune
Bow Irish jig, and ancient rigadoon.
Scotch reels, avaunt! and country-dance forego
Your future claims to each fantastic toe!
Waltz—Waltz alone—both legs and arms
demands,
Liberal of feet, and lavish of her hands.
Byron—The Waltz. L. 109.
Hot from the hands promiscuously applied,
Round the slight waist, or down the glowing side.
Byron—The Waltz. L. 234.
What! the girl I adore by another embraced?
What! the balm of her breath shall another man
taste?
What! pressed in the dance by another's man's
knee?
What! panting recline on another than me?
Sir, she's yours; you have pressed from the grape
its fine blue,
From the rosebud you've shaken the tremulous
dew;
What you've touched you may take. Pretty
waltzer—adieu!
Sir Henry Englefteld—The Waltz. Dancing.
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{{Hoyt quote
| num = 5
| text = Such pains, such pleasures now alike are o'er,
And beaus and etiquette shall soon exist no more
At their speed behold advancing
Modern men and women dancing;
Step and dress alike express
Above, below from heel to toe,
Male and female awkwardness.
Without a hoop, without a ruffle,
One eternal jig and shuffle,
Where's the air and where's the gait?
Where's the feather in the hat?
Where the frizzed toupee? and where
Oh! where's the powder for the hair?
Catherine Fanshawe—The Abrogation of the
Birth-Night Ball.
To brisk notes in cadence beating
Glance their many-twinkling feet.
Gray—Progress of Poesy. Pt. I. St. 3.
L. 10.
Alike all ages: dames of ancient days
Have led their children through the mirthful
maze;
And the gay grandsire, skill'd in gestic lore,
Has frisk'd beneath the burden of threescore.
| author = Goldsmith
| work = Traveller. L. 251.
And the dancing has begun now,
And the dancers whirl round gaily
In the waltz's giddy mazes,
And the ground beneath them trembles.
Heine—Book of Songs. DonRamiro. St. 23.
Twelve dancers are dancing, and taking no rest,
And closely their hands together are press'd;
And soon as a dance has come to a close,
Another begins, and each merrily goes.
Heine—Dream and Life.
Merrily, merrily whirled the wheels of the
dizzying dances
Under the orchard-trees and down the path to
the meadows;
Old folk and young together, and children
mingled among them.
| author = Longfellow
| work = Evangeline. Pt. I. IV.
n H ew h° esteems the Virginia reel
A bait to draw saints from their spiritual weal,
And regards the quadrille as a far greater
knavery
Than crushing His African children with slavery,
Since all who take part in a waltz or cotillon
Are mounted for hell on the devil's own pillion,
Who, as every true orthodox Christian well
knows,
Approaches the heart through the door of the
toes.
| author = Lowell
| work = Fable for Critics. L. 492.
Come, knit hands, and beat the ground
In a light fantastic round.
| author = Milton
| work = Comus. L. 143.
Come and trip it as ye go,
On the light fantastic toe.
| author = Milton
| work = L' Allegro. L. 33.
Dancing in the chequer'd shade.
| author = Milton
| work = L' Allegro. L. 96.
Dear creature!—you'd swear
When her delicate feet in the dance twinkle
round,
That her steps are of light, that her home is the
air,
And she only par complaisance touches the
ground.
Moore—Fudge Family in Paris. Letter V.
L. 50.
Others import yet nobler arts from France,
Teach kings to fiddle, and make senates dance.
| author = Pope
| work = Dunciad.
| place = Bk. IV. L. 597.
Oh! if to dance all night, and dress all day,
Charm'd the small-pox, or chas'd old age away;
- * * * * *
To patch, nay ogle, might become a saint,
Nor could it sure be such a sin to paint.
| author = Pope
| work = Rape of the Lock. Canto V. L. 19.
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{{Hoyt quote
| num = 15
| text = I know the romance, since it's over,
'Twere idle, or worse, to recall;—
I know you're a terrible rover;
But, Clarence, you'll come to our ball.
Praed—Our Ball.
I saw her at a country ball;
There when the sound of flute and fiddle
Gave signal sweet in that old hall,
Of hands across and down the middle
Hers was the subtlest spell by far
Of all that sets young hearts romancing:
She was our queen, our rose, our star;
And when she danced—oh, heaven, her dancing!
Praed—The Belle of the Boll.
