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Стр. 92 - I loved the man, and do honour his memory, on this side idolatry, as much as any. He was, indeed, honest, and of. an open and free nature, had an excellent fancy, brave notions, and gentle expressions...
Стр. 40 - The ill-timed truth we might have kept — Who knows how sharp it pierced and stung? The word we had not sense to say — Who knows how grandly it had rung? "Our faults no tenderness should ask, The chastening stripes must cleanse them all; But for our blunders — oh, in shame Before the eyes of heaven we fall. "Earth bears no balsam for mistakes; Men crown the knave, and scourge the tool That did his will; but Thou, O Lord, Be merciful to me, a fool!
Стр. 40 - The royal feast was done; the King Sought some new sport to banish care, And to his jester cried: "Sir Fool, Kneel now, and make for us a prayer!" The jester doffed his cap and bells, And stood the mocking court before; , They could not see the bitter smile Behind the painted grin he wore. He bowed his head, and bent his knee Upon the monarch's silken stool; His pleading voice arose: "O Lord, Be merciful to me, a fool! 'No pity, Lord, could change the heart From red with wrong to white as wool: The...
Стр. 40 - These clumsy feet, still in the mire, Go crushing blossoms without end; These hard, well-meaning hands we thrust Among the heart-strings of a friend.
Стр. 92 - Ovid, the most natural and witty of all poets. 3. Plautus, who was an exact comedian, yet never any scholar, as our Shakespeare, if alive, would confess himself.
Стр. 18 - The more we live, more brief appear Our life's succeeding stages : A day to childhood seems a year, And years like passing ages. The gladsome current of our youth, Ere passion yet disorders, Steals lingering like a river smooth Along its grassy borders. But as the care-worn cheek grows wan, And sorrow's shafts fly thicker, Ye Stars, that measure life to man, Why seem your courses quicker ? When joys have lost their bloom and...
Стр. 91 - I, therefore will begin. Soule of the Age! The applause! delight! the wonder of our Stage! My Shakespeare, rise; I will not lodge thee by Chaucer, or Spenser, or bid Beaumont lye A little further, to make thee a roome: Thou art a Moniment, without a tombe, And art alive still, while thy Booke doth live, And we have wits to read, and praise to give.
Стр. 49 - Somewhere thou livest and hast need of Him ; Somewhere thy soul sees higher heights to climb ; And somewhere still there may be valleys dim That thou must pass to reach the hills sublime.