The Works of the English Poets: With Prefaces, Biographical and Critical, Bände 26-28

Samuel Johnson
C. Bathurst, 1779

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Seite 182 - There taught us how to live; and (oh! too high The price for knowledge) taught us how to die.
Seite 184 - Nor think him all thy own. To-morrow, in the church to wed, Impatient, both prepare ! But know, fond maid ; and know, false man, That Lucy will be there!
Seite 181 - Or dost thou warn poor mortals left behind, A task well suited to thy gentle mind? Oh ! if sometimes thy spotless form descend : To me, thy aid, thou guardian genius, lend ! When rage misguides me, or when fear alarms, When pain distresses, or when pleasure charms, In silent whisperings purer thoughts impart, And turn from ill, a frail and feeble heart ; Lead through the paths thy virtue trod before, Till bliss shall join, nor death can part us more.
Seite 180 - Proud names, who once the reins of empire held ; In arms who triumph'd ; or in arts excell'd ; Chiefs, grac'd with scars, and prodigal of blood ; Stern patriots, who for sacred freedom stood ; Just men, by whom impartial laws were given ; And saints, who taught and led the way to heaven...
Seite 48 - I have skill to complain, Though the Muses my temples have crowned ; What though, when they hear my soft strain, The Virgins sit weeping around; Ah ! COLIN ! thy hopes are in vain ! Thy pipe and thy laurel resign! Thy False One inclines to a Swain, Whose music is sweeter than thine!
Seite 47 - To forsake the fine folk of the town ! To think that a beauty so gay, So kind and so constant...
Seite 116 - Broke forth the prophet without breeches. " Into what ills betray'd, by thee, This ancient kingdom do I...
Seite 183 - Ye perjur'd swains! beware. Three times, all in the dead of night, A bell was heard to ring, And, shrieking at her window thrice, The raven flapp'd his wing.
Seite 186 - To the fair villa, and well-order'd bowers ; To court thy pencil early at thy gates, Ambition knocks, and fleeting Beauty waits ; The boastful Muse, of others...
Seite 192 - Midst greens and sweets, a regal fabric, stands, And sees each spring, luxuriant in her bowers, A snow of blossoms, and a wild of flowers, The dames of Britain oft in crowds repair To gravel walks, and unpolluted air. Here, while the town in damps and darkness lies, They breathe in sunshine, and see azure skies ; Each walk, with robes of various dyes bespread, Seems from afar a moving tulip-bed, Where rich brocades and glossy damasks glow, And chints, the rival of the showery bow.

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