900. Resentment.

900. Resentment.NOUN. resentment, displeasure, animosity, anger, wrath, indignation; vexation, exasperation, bitter resentment, wrathful indignation.

pique, umbrage, huff, miff, soreness, dudgeon, acerbity, virulence, bitterness, acrimony, asperity, spleen, gall; heart-burning, heart-swelling; rankling.

ill humour, bad humour, ill temper, bad temper; irascibility &c. 901; ill blood &c. (hate) 898; revenge &c. 919.

excitement, irritation; warmth, bile, choler, ire, fume, pucker, dander, ferment, ebullition; towering passion, towering rage, acharnement [Fr.], angry mood, taking, pet, tiff, passion, fit, tantrums.

burst, explosion, paroxysm, storm, rage, fury, desperation; violence &c. 173; fire and fury; vials of wrath; gnashing of teeth, hot blood, high words.

scowl &c. 895; sulks &c. 901a.

[Cause of umbrage] affront, provocation, offence; indignity &c. (insult) 929; grudge, crow to pluck, sore subject; red rag to a bull; bone to pick, casus belli [Lat.]; ill turn, outrage.

Furies, Erinys, Eumenides, Alecto, Megæra, Tisiphone.

buffet, slap in the face, box on the ear, rap on the knuckles.

VERB. resent; take amiss, take ill, take to heart, take offence, take umbrage, take huff, take exception; take in ill part, take in bad part, take in dudgeon; ne pas entendre raillerie [Fr.]; breathe revenge, cut up rough.

fly into a rage, fall into a rage, get into a rage, fly into a passion; bridle up, bristle up, froth up, fire up, flare up; open the vials of one’s wrath, pour out the vials of one’s wrath.

pout, knit the brow, frown, scowl, lower, snarl, growl, gnarl, gnash, snap; redden, colour; look black, look black as thunder, look daggers; bite one’s thumb; show one’s teeth, grind one’s teeth; champ the bit, champ at the bit.

chafe, mantle, fume, kindle, fly out, take fire; boil, boil over; boil with indignation, boil with rage; rage, storm, foam, vent one’s rage, vent one’s spleen; lose one’s temper, stand on one’s hind legs, stamp the foot, stamp with rage, kick up a row, fly off the handle, cut up rough; stamp with rage, quiver with rage, swell with rage, foam with rage; burst with anger; raise Cain, breathe fire and fury.

have a fling at; bear malice &c. (revenge) 919.

cause anger, raise anger; affront, offend; give offence, give umbrage; anger; hurt the feelings; insult, discompose, fret, ruffle, nettle, huff, pique; excite &c. 824; irritate, stir the blood, stir up bile; sting, sting to the quick; rile, provoke, chafe, wound, incense, inflame, enrage, aggravate, add fuel to the flame, fan into a flame, widen the breach, envenom, embitter, exasperate, infuriate, kindle wrath; stick in one’s gizzard; rankle. 919; hit on the raw, rub on the raw, sting on the raw, strike on the raw.

put out of countenance, put out of humour; put one’s monkey up, put one’s back up; raise one’s gorge, raise one’s dander, raise one’s choler; work up into a passion; make one’s blood boil, make the ears tingle; throw, into a ferment, madden, drive one mad; lash into fury, lash into madness; fool to the top of one’s bent; set by the ears.

bring a hornet’s nest about one’s ears.

ADJ. angry, wrath, irate; ireful, wrathful; cross &c. (irascible) 901; Achillean; sulky, &c. 901a; bitter, virulent; acrimonious &c. (discourteous) &c. 895; violent &c. 173.

warm, burning; boiling, boiling over; fuming, raging; foaming, foaming at the mouth; convulsed with rage.

offended &c. v.; waxy, acharné [Fr.]; wrought, worked up; indignant, hurt, sore, peeved; set against.

fierce, wild, rageful, furious, mad with rage, fiery, infuriate, rabid, savage; relentless &c. 919.

flushed with anger, flushed with rage; in a huff, in a stew, in a fume, in a pucker, in a passion, in a rage, in a fury, in a taking, in a way; on one’s high ropes, up in arms; in high dudgeon.

ADV. angrily &c. adj.; in the height of passion; in the heat of passion, in the heat of the moment.

INT. Tantaene animis coelestibus irae! [Lat.] {Virgil(See Phrases below)}; marry come up! zounds! ’sdeath!

PHR. one’s blood being up, one’s back being up, one’s monkey being up; the gorge rising, eyes flashing fire; the blood rising, the blood boiling;

Fervens difficili bile tumet jecur. [Lat.] {Horace—Odes. Bk. I. 13. “My liver is in a ferment, burning with gall not to be restrained.” }.

Tantæne animis cœlestibus iræ? [Lat.] {Virgil—Æneid. I. 11. “Is there such wrath in heavenly minds?” }.

Hæret lateri lethalis arundo. [Lat.] {Virgil—Æneid. IV. 73. “The fatal dart / Sticks in her side, and rankles in her heart.” (Dryden). Said of the hapless Dido in love with Æneas. }.

Why am I forced, like Heaven, against my mind;
To make examples of another kind?
Must I at length the sword of justice draw?
Oh, cursed effects of necessary law!
How ill my fear they by my mercy scan!
Beware the fury of a patient man! 

{John Dryden—Absalom and Achitophel. Pt. I. L. 1000-1005.}.

Furor arma ministrat. [Lat.] {Virgil—Æneid. I. 150. “Rage supplies arms.” (See full quote below). }.

Ac veluti magno in populo quum sæpe coorta est / Seditio, sævitque animis ignobile vulgus, / Jamque faces et saxa volant; furor arma ministrat. [Lat.] {Virgil—Æneid. I. 148-150. “As when sedition oft’ has stirred / In some great town the vulgar herd, / And brands and stones already fly, / For rage has always weapons nigh.” (Conington). }.

Ira furor brevis est: animum rege: qui nisi paret imperat. [Lat.] {Horace—Epistles. I. 2. 62. “Anger is momentary madness, so control your passion or it will control you.” }.

“One day I put two plates before her, one of soup, and the other of very sweet vanilla cream. I made her taste each of them successively, and then I let her choose for herself, and she ate the plate of cream. In a short time I made her very greedy, so greedy that it appeared as if the only idea she had in her head was the desire for eating. She perfectly recognized the various dishes, and stretched out her hands toward those that she liked, and took hold of them eagerly, and she used to cry when they were taken from her. Then I thought I would try and teach her to come to the dining-room when the dinner bell rang. It took a long time, but I succeeded in the end. In her vacant intellect a vague correlation was established between sound and taste, a correspondence between the two senses, an appeal from one to the other, and consequently a sort of connection of ideas—if one can call that kind of instinctive hyphen between two organic functions an idea—and so I carried my experiments further, and taught her, with much difficulty, to recognize meal times by the clock.

“It was impossible for me for a long time to attract her attention to the hands, but I succeeded in making her remark the clockwork and the striking apparatus. The means I employed were very simple; I asked them not to have the bell rung for lunch, and everybody got up and went into the dining-room when the little brass hammer struck twelve o’clock, but I found great difficulty in making her learn to count the strokes. She ran to the door each time she heard the clock strike, but by degrees she learned that all the strokes had not the same value as far as regarded meals, and she frequently fixed her eyes, guided by her ears, on the dial of the clock.

“When I noticed that, I took care every day at twelve, and at six o’clock, to place my fingers on the figures twelve and six, as soon as the moment she was waiting for had arrived, and I soon noticed that she attentively followed the motion of the small brass hands, which I had often turned in her presence.

“She had understood! Perhaps I ought rather to say that she had grasped the idea. I had succeeded in getting the knowledge, or, rather, the sensation, of the time into her, just as is the case with carp, who certainly have no clocks, when they are fed every day exactly at the same time.

“When once I had obtained that result all the clocks and watches in the house occupied her attention almost exclusively. She spent her time in looking at them, listening to them, and in waiting for meal time, and once something very funny happened. The striking apparatus of a pretty little Louis XVI clock that hung at the head of her bed having got out of order, she noticed it. She sat for twenty minutes with her eyes on the hands, waiting for it to strike ten, but when the hands passed the figure she was astonished at not hearing anything; so stupefied was she, indeed, that she sat down, no doubt overwhelmed by a feeling of violent emotion such as attacks us in the face of some terrible catastrophe. And she had the wonderful patience to wait until eleven o’clock in order to see what would happen, and as she naturally heard nothing, she was suddenly either seized with a wild fit of rage at having been deceived and imposed upon by appearances, or else overcome by that fear which some frightened creature feels at some terrible mystery, and by the furious impatience of a passionate individual who meets with some obstacle; she took up the tongs from the fireplace and struck the clock so violently that she broke it to pieces in a moment.

{Guy de Maupassant—Bertha.}.

Quem [or quos] Jupiter [or Deus] vult perdere, prius dementat. [Lat.] {Saying“Whom Jupiter [or God] wishes to ruin, he first drives mad.” (Translated from the Greek by Joshua Barnes [1654-1712]. The original Greek fragment by Euripides is shown below). }.

Οταν δέ Δαίμων ἀνδρὶ προσύνῃ κακὰ, Τὀν νοὒν ἕβλαψε πρὣτον. [Grk.] {Euripides—Fragment. “When a divinity would work evil to a man, first he deprives him of his senses.” or “When the Deity would prepare evil for a man, he first perverts his reason.” }.

MONTJOY. No, great King;
I come to thee for charitable licence,
That we may wander o’er this bloody field
To book our dead, and then to bury them;
To sort our nobles from our common men;
For many of our princes– woe the while!–
Lie drown’d and soak’d in mercenary blood;
So do our vulgar drench their peasant limbs
In blood of princes; and their wounded steeds
Fret fetlock deep in gore, and with wild rage
Yerk out their armed heels at their dead masters,
Killing them twice. O, give us leave, great King,
To view the field in safety, and dispose
Of their dead bodies!

{Shakespeare—King Henry V. Act IV. Sc. 7.}.

Nunquam irasci desinet sapiens, si semel coeperit; omnia sceleribus ac vitiis plena sunt. [Lat.] {Seneca—De Ira. II .9. “The sage will never cease from anger, if once he gives way to it; for everything round him is overflowing with vice and crime.” }.

Furor iraque mentem præcipitant. [Lat.] {Virgil—Æneid. II. 316. “Fury and anger carry the mind away.” }.

In the end of April 1727, we find Swift again in Twickenham, where his irritation at the continued ascendancy of Sir Robert Walpole served to infuse more venom into the “Miscellanies” concocted between him and Pope,—two volumes of which appeared in June this year. Gay, also, and the ingenious and admirable Dr. Arbuthnot, contributed their quota to these volumes. Swift speedily fell ill with that giddiness and deafness which were the _avant-couriers_ of his final malady; and in August he left Twickenham, and in October, London and England, for ever.

In these “Miscellanies” there appeared the famous “Memoirs of Martinus Scriblerus,” written chiefly by Pope, in which he lashed the various proficients in the bathos, under the names of flying fishes, swallows, parrots, frogs, eels, &c., and appended the initials of well-known authors to each head. This roused Grub Street, whose malice had nearly fallen asleep, into fresh fury, and he was bitterly assailed in every possible form. Like Hyder Ali, he now—to travesty Burke—“in the recesses of a mind capacious of such things, determined to leave all Duncedom an everlasting monument of vengeance, and became at length so confident of his force, so collected in his might, that he made no secret whatever of his dreadful resolution, but, compounding all the materials of fun, sarcasm, irony, and invective, into one black cloud, he hung for a while on the declivities of Richmond Hill; and whilst the authors were idly and stupidly gazing on this menacing meteor which blackened all their horizon, it suddenly burst and poured down the whole of its contents on the garrets of Grub Street. Then issued a scene of (ludicrous) woe, the like of which no eye had seen, no heart conceived, and which no tongue can adequately tell. All the horrors of literary war before known or heard of—(MacFlecknoe, the Rehearsal, &c.)—were mercy to the new tempest of havoc which burst from the brain of this remorseless poet. A storm of universal laughter filled every bookseller’s shop, and penetrated into the remotest attics. The miserable dunces, in part, were stricken mad with rage—in part, dumb with consternation. Some fled for refuge to ale, and others to ink; while not a few fell, or feared to fall, into the ‘jaws of famine.’ ” This singular poem was written in 1727. It was first printed surreptitiously (i.e., with the connivance of the author) in Dublin, and then reprinted in London. The first perfect edition, however, did not appear in London till 1729. On the day of its publication, according to Pope, a crowd of authors besieged the publisher’s shop; and by entreaties, threats, nay, cries of treason, tried to hinder its appearance. What a scene it must have been—of teeth gnashing above ragged coats, and eyes glaring through old periwigs—of faces livid with famine and ferocity; while, to complete the confusion, hawkers, booksellers, and even lords, were mixed with the crowd, clamouring for its issue! And as, says Pope, “there is no stopping a torrent with a finger, out it came.” The consequence he had foreseen. A universal howl of rage and pain burst from the aggrieved dunces, on whose naked sides the hot pitch had fallen. They pushed their rejoinders beyond the limits of civilised literary warfare; and although Pope had been coarse in his language, they were coarser far, and their blackguardism was not redeemed by wit or genius. Pope felt, or seemed to feel, entire indifference as to these assaults. On some of them, indeed, he could afford to look down with contempt, on account of their obvious animus and gross language. Others, again, were neutralised by the fact, that their authors had provoked reprisals by their previous insults or ingratitude to Pope. Many, however, were too obscure for his notice; and some, such as Aaron Hill and Bentley, did not deserve to be classed with the Theobalds and Ralphs. To Hill, he, after some finessing, was compelled to make an apology. Altogether, although this production increased Pope’s fame, and the conception of his power, it did not tend to shew him in the most amiable light, or perhaps to promote his own comfort or peace of mind. After having emptied out his bile in “The Dunciad,” he ought to have become mellower in temper, and resigned satire for ever. He continued, on the contrary, as ill-natured as before; and although he afterwards flew at higher game, the iron had entered into his soul, and he remained a satirist, and therefore an unhappy man, for life. 

{Rev. George Gilfillan—The Poetical Works of Alexander Pope. Vol. I. With Memoir, Critical Dissertation, and Explanatory Notes by The Rev. George Gilfillan. The Life of Alexander Pope.}.

Then war broke out between them; he called her names and beat her. They quarrelled all day long, and when they were in their room together at night he flung insults and obscenities at her, choking with rage, until one night, not being able to think of any means of making her suffer more he ordered her to get up and go and stand out of doors in the rain until daylight. As she did not obey him, he seized her by the neck and began to strike her in the face with his fists, but she said nothing and did not move. In his exasperation he knelt on her stomach, and with clenched teeth, and mad with rage, he began to beat her. Then in her despair she rebelled, and flinging him against the wall with a furious gesture, she sat up, and in an altered voice she hissed: “I have had a child, I have had one! I had it by Jacques; you know Jacques. He promised to marry me, but he left this neighborhood without keeping his word.”

The man was thunderstruck and could hardly speak, but at last he stammered out: “What are you saying? What are you saying?” Then she began to sob, and amid her tears she continued: “That was the reason why I did not want to marry you. I could not tell you, for you would have left me without any bread for my child. You have never had any children, so you cannot understand, you cannot understand!”

He said again, mechanically, with increasing surprise: “You have a child? You have a child?”

“You took me by force, as I suppose you know? I did not want to marry you,” she said, still sobbing.

{Guy de Maupassant—The Story of a Farm Girl. Pt. V.}.

Mrs Partridge being one day at this assembly of females, was asked by one of her neighbours, if she had heard no news lately of Jenny Jones? To which she answered in the negative. Upon this the other replied, with a smile, That the parish was very much obliged to her for having turned Jenny away as she did.

Mrs Partridge, whose jealousy, as the reader well knows, was long since cured, and who had no other quarrel to her maid, answered boldly, She did not know any obligation the parish had to her on that account; for she believed Jenny had scarce left her equal behind her.

“No, truly,” said the gossip, “I hope not, though I fancy we have sluts enow too. Then you have not heard, it seems, that she hath been brought to bed of two bastards? but as they are not born here, my husband and the other overseer says we shall not be obliged to keep them.”

“Two bastards!” answered Mrs Partridge hastily: “you surprize me! I don’t know whether we must keep them; but I am sure they must have been begotten here, for the wench hath not been nine months gone away.”

Nothing can be so quick and sudden as the operations of the mind, especially when hope, or fear, or jealousy, to which the two others are but journeymen, set it to work. It occurred instantly to her, that Jenny had scarce ever been out of her own house while she lived with her. The leaning over the chair, the sudden starting up, the Latin, the smile, and many other things, rushed upon her all at once. The satisfaction her husband expressed in the departure of Jenny, appeared now to be only dissembled; again, in the same instant, to be real; but yet to confirm her jealousy, proceeding from satiety, and a hundred other bad causes. In a word, she was convinced of her husband’s guilt, and immediately left the assembly in confusion.

As fair Grimalkin, who, though the youngest of the feline family, degenerates not in ferocity from the elder branches of her house, and though inferior in strength, is equal in fierceness to the noble tiger himself, when a little mouse, whom it hath long tormented in sport, escapes from her clutches for a while, frets, scolds, growls, swears; but if the trunk, or box, behind which the mouse lay hid be again removed, she flies like lightning on her prey, and, with envenomed wrath, bites, scratches, mumbles, and tears the little animal.

Not with less fury did Mrs Partridge fly on the poor pedagogue. Her tongue, teeth, and hands, fell all upon him at once. His wig was in an instant torn from his head, his shirt from his back, and from his face descended five streams of blood, denoting the number of claws with which nature had unhappily armed the enemy.

Mr Partridge acted for some time on the defensive only; indeed he attempted only to guard his face with his hands; but as he found that his antagonist abated nothing of her rage, he thought he might, at least, endeavour to disarm her, or rather to confine her arms; in doing which her cap fell off in the struggle, and her hair being too short to reach her shoulders, erected itself on her head; her stays likewise, which were laced through one single hole at the bottom, burst open; and her breasts, which were much more redundant than her hair, hung down below her middle; her face was likewise marked with the blood of her husband: her teeth gnashed with rage; and fire, such as sparkles from a smith’s forge, darted from her eyes. So that, altogether, this Amazonian heroine might have been an object of terror to a much bolder man than Mr Partridge.

He had, at length, the good fortune, by getting possession of her arms, to render those weapons which she wore at the ends of her fingers useless; which she no sooner perceived, than the softness of her sex prevailed over her rage, and she presently dissolved in tears, which soon after concluded in a fit.

{Henry Fielding—The History of Tom Jones, a foundling. Bk. II. Ch. IV. Containing one of the most bloody battles, or rather duels, that were ever recorded in domestic history.}.

See also François Rabelais on how insult provokes war in phrases for Discord.

See also George Bernard Shaw’s description of Susanna Conolly in his novel “The Irrational Knot” in phrases for Drunkenness.

Roget’s Thesaurus 1911. Compiled, edited and supplemented by Nicholas Shea. Dev version 1.7.9b Compiled on: 19 January 2022 at 05:16:38
CORRECTED HEADS: 1 to 905; CORRECTED QUOTES: 1 to 905; ALL OTHER HEADS & QUOTES IN PROGRESS. www.neolithicsphere.com

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