The Literary Character: Or, The History of Men of Genius, Drawn from Their Own Feelings, and Confessions; Literary Miscellanies; and An Inquiry Into the Character of James the First

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Routledge, Warnes, and Routledge, 1859 - 462 Seiten
 

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Seite 252 - 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 ? The notice which you have been pleased to take of my labours, had it been early had been kind ; but it has been delayed till I am indifferent, and cannot enjoy it ; till I am solitary. and cannot impart it; till I am known, and do not want it.
Seite 112 - Verily I have cleansed my heart in vain, and washed my hands in innocency. For all the day long have I been plagued, and chastened every morning.
Seite 37 - When I was yet a child, no childish play To me was pleasing ; all my mind was set Serious to learn and know, and thence to do What might be public good; myself I thought Born to that end, born to promote all truth, All righteous things...
Seite 199 - Subtle as sphinx ; as sweet, and musical, As bright Apollo's lute, strung with his hair, And, when love speaks, the voice of all the gods Makes heaven drowsy with the harmony. Never durst poet touch a pen to write, Until his ink were temper'd with love's sighs ; O, then his lines would ravish savage ears, And plant in tyrants mild humility.
Seite 37 - He wish'd to be the guardian, not the king, Tyrant far less, or traitor of the field, And sure the sylvan reign unbloody joy...
Seite 12 - my history will not be long : the life that is devoted to knowledge passes silently away, and is very little diversified by events. To talk in public, to think in solitude, to read and to hear, to inquire and answer inquiries, is the business of a scholar. He wanders about the world without pomp or terror, and is neither known nor valued but by men like himself.
Seite 210 - Till the Ledaean stars, so famed for love, Wonder'd at us from above! We spent them not in toys, in lusts, or wine; But search of deep philosophy, Wit, eloquence, and poetry — Arts which I loved, for they, my friend, were thine.
Seite 135 - He arose, fresh as the morning, to his task : the silence of the night invited him to pursue it ; and he can truly say, that food and rest were not preferred before it. Every psalm improved infinitely upon his acquaintance with it, and no one gave him uneasiness but the last ; for then he grieved that his work was done.
Seite 202 - Methinks I hear in accents low The sportive, kind reply : Poor moralist ! and what art thou ? A solitary fly ! Thy joys no glittering female meets, No hive hast thou of hoarded sweets, No painted plumage to display : On hasty wings thy youth is flown ; Thy sun is set, thy spring is gone — We frolic, while 'tis May.
Seite 146 - With curious art the brain, too finely wrought, Preys on herself, and is destroyed by thought. Constant attention wears the active mind, Blots out her pow'rs, and leaves a blank behind.

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