Poetry and Poets: A Collection of the Choicest Anecdotes Relative to the Poets of Every Age and Nation. With Specimens of Their Works and Sketches of Their Biography, Band 2
Sherwood, Gilbert, & Piper, 1826
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Seite 253 - So many hours must I tend my flock; So many hours must I take my rest; So many hours must I contemplate; So many hours must I sport myself...
Seite 151 - The higher he's a-getting, The sooner will his race be run, And nearer he's to setting. That age is best which is the first, When youth and blood are warmer; But being spent, the worse and worst Times still succeed the former. Then be not coy, but use your time, And while ye may, go marry; For, having lost but...
Seite 253 - O God! methinks it were a happy life, To be no better than a homely swain; To sit upon a hill, as I do now, To carve out dials quaintly, point by point...
Seite 256 - There went up a smoke out of his nostrils, And fire out of his mouth devoured; Coals were kindled by it. He bowed the heavens also, and came down; And darkness was under his feet. And he rode upon a cherub and did fly; Yea, he did fly upon the wings of the wind.
Seite 151 - But being spent, the worse, and worst Times still succeed the former. Then be not coy, but use your time, And while ye may, go marry; For having lost but once your prime, You may for ever tarry.
Seite 11 - Our Tragedies and Comedies (not without cause cried out against), observing rules neither of honest civility nor of skilful Poetry, excepting Gorboduc (again, I say, of those that I have seen), which notwithstanding, as it is full of stately speeches and well-sounding phrases, climbing to the height of Seneca's style, and as full of notable morality, which it doth most delightfully teach, and so obtain the very end of Poesy...
Seite 194 - Stone walls do not a prison make, Nor iron bars a cage ; Minds innocent and quiet take That for a hermitage : If I have freedom in my love, And in my soul am free, — Angels alone that soar above Enjoy such liberty.
Seite 197 - Io ne potrò toccare , e non e' è un cane Che mi tolga al mio stato miserando. La mia povera madre non ha pane, Se non da me , ed io non ho danaro Da mantenerla almeno per domane.
Seite 242 - With scutcheons of silver the coffin is shielded, And pages stand mute by the canopied pall : Through the courts at deep midnight the torches are gleaming ; In the proudly arched chapel the banners are beaming ; Far adown the long aisle sacred music is streaming, Lamenting a chief of the people should fall.