Among My Books

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Houghton, Mifflin, 1893 - 380 Seiten
 

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Seite 342 - If to do were as easy as to know what were good to do, chapels had been churches, and poor men's cottages princes' palaces. It is a good divine that follows his own instructions. I can easier teach twenty what were good to be done than be one of the twenty to follow mine own teaching.
Seite 213 - Thus conscience does make cowards of us all, And thus the native hue of resolution Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought, And enterprises of great pitch and moment With this regard their currents turn awry And lose the name of action.
Seite 329 - The Shepherd in Virgil, grew at last acquainted with Love, and found him a native of the rocks. 'Is not a patron, my Lord, one who looks with unconcern on a man struggling for life in the water, and when he has reached ground encumbers him with help?
Seite 187 - This castle hath a pleasant seat ; the air Nimbly and sweetly recommends itself Unto our gentle senses. BAN. This guest of summer, The temple-haunting martlet, does approve By his loved mansionry that the heaven's breath Smells wooingly here : no jutty, frieze, Buttress, nor coign of vantage, but this bird Hath made his pendent bed and procreant cradle : Where they most breed and haunt, I have observed The air is delicate.
Seite 11 - Like rose-buds, stuck i' th' lily-skin about. Each little pimple had a tear in it, To wail the fault its rising did commit : eo Which, rebel-like, with its own lord at strife, Thus made an insurrection 'gainst his life. Or were these gems sent to adorn his skin, The cabinet of a richer soul within ? No comet need foretell his change drew on, Whose corpse might seem a constellation.
Seite 324 - In bigness to surpass Earth's giant sons, Now less than smallest dwarfs, in narrow room Throng numberless...
Seite 264 - O good old man ; how well in thee appears The constant service of the antique world, When service sweat for duty, not for meed...
Seite 4 - Till, like the certain wands of Jacob's wit, Their verses tallied. Easy was the task : A thousand handicraftsmen wore the mask Of Poesy. Ill-fated, impious race ! That blasphemed the bright Lyrist to his face, And did not know it, — no, they went about, Holding a poor, decrepit standard out, Marked with most flimsy mottoes, and in large The name of one Boileau...
Seite 62 - But he has now another taste of wit; And, to confess a truth, (though out of time), Grows weary of his long-loved mistress rhyme. Passion's too fierce to be in fetters bound, And nature flies him like enchanted ground...
Seite 352 - Rousseau, Sir, is a very bad man. I would sooner sign a sentence for his transportation, than that of any felon who has gone from the Old Bailey these many years. Yes, I should like to have him work in the plantations.

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