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What needs my Shakespeare, for his honoured bones,
The labour of an age in piled stones?

Or that his hallowed relics should be hid
Under a star-y-pointing pyramid?

Dear son of memory, great heir of fame.

Epitaph on Shakespeare. Line 1.

And so sepulchred in such pomp dost lie,

That kings for such a tomb would wish to die. Line 15.

Thy liquid notes that close the eye of day.

Sonnet to the Nightingale.

As ever in my great Task-master's eye.

On his being arrived to the Age of Twenty-three.

The great Emathian conqueror bid spare

The house of Pindarus, when temple and tower

Went to the ground. When the Assault was intended to the City.

That old man eloquent.

To the Lady Margaret Ley.

That would have made Quintilian stare and gasp.

On the Detraction which followed upon my writing Certain
Treatises.

License they mean when they cry liberty. On the Same.

Peace hath her victories

No less renowned than war. To the Lord General Cromwell.

Even them who kept thy truth so pure of old,
When all our fathers worshipped stocks and stones.
On the late Massacre in Piedmont.

Thousands at His bidding speed,

And post o'er land and ocean without rest;

They also serve who only stand and wait. On his Blindness.

What neat repast shall feast us, light and choice,

Of Attic taste?

To Mr. Lawrence.

In mirth, that after no repenting draws. To Cyriac Skinner.

For other things mild Heaven a time ordains,
And disapproves that care, though wise in show,
That with superfluous burden loads the day,
And, when God sends a cheerful hour, refrains.
Sonnet to Cyriac Skinner.

Yet I argue not

Against Heaven's hand or will, nor bate a jot
Of heart or hope; but still bear up and steer
Right onward.

Of which all Europe rings from side to side.

Ibid.

Ibid.

But oh! as to embrace me she inclined,
I waked, she fled, and day brought back my night.
On his Deceased Wife.

O fairest flower, no sooner blown but blasted,

Soft silken primrose fading timelessly.

Ode on the Death of a fair Infant, dying of a Cough.

Have hung

My dank and dropping weeds

To the stern god of sea.

Translation of Horace. Book i. Ode 5. For such kind of borrowing as this, if it be not bettered by the borrower, among good authors is accounted Plagiarè. Iconoclastes, xxiii.

Truth is as impossible to be soiled by any outward touch as the sunbeam.1 Doctrine and Discipline of Divorce.

A poet soaring in the high reason of his fancies, with his garland and singing robes about him.

The Reason of Church Government. Int. Book ii.

By labour and intent study (which I take to be my portion in this life), joined with the strong propensity

1 See Bacon. Page 140.

of nature, I might perhaps leave something so written to after times, as they should not willingly let it die. The Reason of Church Government. Int. Book ii. Beholding the bright countenance of truth in the quiet and still air of delightful studies.

Ibid.

He who would not be frustrate of his hope to write well hereafter in laudable things ought himself to be a true poem. Apology for Smectymnuus. His words, like so many nimble and airy servitors, trip about him at command.

Ibid.

Litigious terms, fat contentions, and flowing fees. Tractate of Education. I shall detain you no longer in the demonstration of what we should not do, but straight conduct ye to a hillside, where I will point ye out the right path of a virtuous and noble education; laborious indeed at the first ascent, but else so smooth, so green, so full of goodly prospect, and melodious sounds on every side, that the harp of Orpheus was not more charming.

Ibid.

Enflamed with the study of learning and the admiration of virtue; stirred up with high hopes of living to be brave men and worthy patriots, dear to God, and famous to all ages.

Ibid.

In those vernal seasons of the year, when the air is calm and pleasant, it were an injury and sullenness against Nature not to go out and see her riches, and partake in her rejoicing with heaven and earth. Ibid.

Attic tragedies of stateliest and most regal argument.

Ibid.

As good almost kill a man as kill a good book; who kills a man kills a reasonable creature, God's image; but he who destroys a good book kills reason itself.

Areopagitica.

A good book is the precious life-blood of a masterspirit embalmed and treasured up on purpose to a life beyond life. Areopagitica.

Seasoned life of man preserved and stored up in books.

Ibid.

I cannot praise a fugitive and cloistered virtue, unexercised and unbreathed, that never sallies out and sees her adversary, but slinks out of the race, where that immortal garland is to be run for, not without dust and heat.

Ibid.

Who shall silence all the airs and madrigals that whisper softness in chambers?

Ibid.

Methinks I see in my mind a noble and puissant nation rousing herself like a strong man after sleep, and shaking her invincible locks; methinks I see her as an eagle mewing her mighty youth, and kindling her undazzled eyes at the full midday beam.

Ibid.

Though all the winds of doctrine were let loose to play upon the earth, so Truth be in the field, we do ingloriously by licensing and prohibiting to misdoubt her strength. Let her and Falsehood grapple: who ever knew Truth put to the worse, in a free and open encounter?

Ibid.

Men of most renowned virtue have sometimes by transgressing most truly kept the law. Tetrachordon.

By this time, like one who had set out on his way by night, and travelled through a region of smooth or idle dreams, our history now arrives on the confines, where daylight and truth meet us with a clear dawn, representing to our view, though at a far distance, true colours and shapes. History of England. Book i.

THOMAS FULLER. 1608-1661.

Drawing near her death, she sent most pious thoughts as harbingers to heaven; and her soul saw a glimpse of happiness through the chinks of her sickness-broken body.1 Holy and Profane State. Life of Monica. But our captain counts the image of God, nevertheless his image, cut in ebony as if done in ivory.

Good Sea-Captain. Their heads sometimes so little, that there is no room for wit; sometimes so long, that there is no wit for so much room. Of Natural Fools.

The Pyramids themselves, doting with age, have forgotten the names of their founders. Of Tombs. Learning hath gained most by those books by which the printers have lost.

Of Books. They that marry ancient people, merely in expectation to bury them, hang themselves, in hope that one will come and cut the halter. Of Marriage.

To smell to a turf of fresh earth is wholesome for the body; no less are thoughts of mortality cordial to the soul. Court Lady.

The lion is not so fierce as painted.2 Of Preferment. A little skill in antiquity inclines a man to Popery; but depth in that study brings him about again to our religion. True Church Antiquary.

Often the cockloft is empty, in those whom Nature hath built many stories high.3 Andronicus, Sect. vi. Par. 18. 1. 1 Compare Waller. Page 175.

2 Compare Herbert. Page 162.

3 Compare Bacon, Apothegm No. 17. Page 139.

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