The Literary Character, Том 2J. Murray, 1822 |
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ADAM SMITH Æneid amidst appears artist ATTICUS Bayle beautiful become BOCCACCIO brother BUFFON celebrity Cicero contemplated CREBILLON curious delight DESCARTES discovered DOMENICHINO domestic Dugald Stewart enthusiasm EPICURUS Europe EVELYN excellence existence eyes faculty fame father favourite feelings felt FOLARD fortune French genius glory habits happiness heart historian honour human ideal presence ideas illustrious imagination immortal influence inspired inventions jealousy John Huss knowledge labours learned LEIBNITZ letters literary character literature lived Lope de Vega Madame DE STAEL meditation ment METASTASIO MILTON mind Molière Montesquieu nature never noble objects observed occupied opinions painter passion PEIRESC perpetual PETRARCH philosopher picture Plutarch poet political POPE possessed present principle pursuits RACINE racter raised reverie rival Rome ROUSSEAU says seems sensibility society solitary solitude spirit studies taste tenderness thought verse Voltaire wife writing
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Сторінка 275 - Guard them, and him within protect from harms. He can requite thee; for he knows the charms That call fame on such gentle acts as these, And he can spread thy name o'er lands and seas, Whatever clime the sun's bright circle warms. Lift not thy spear against the Muses
Сторінка 70 - For what other reason have I spent my life in so unprofitable a study ? why am I grown old, in seeking so barren a reward as fame ? The same parts and application, which have made me a poet, might have raised me to any honours of the gown, which are often given to men of as little learning and less honesty than myself.
Сторінка 168 - Say, for you saw us, ye immortal lights, How oft unwearied have we spent the nights, 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.
Сторінка 143 - 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.
Сторінка 51 - In Pope I cannot read a line, But with a Sigh I wish it mine ; When He can in one Couplet fix More Sense than I can do in six; It gives me such a jealous Fit, I cry "Pox take him and his Wit!
Сторінка 263 - I contrived it so, that lord treasurer came to me, and asked (I had Parnell by me) whether that was Dr. Parnell, and came up and spoke to him with great kindness, and invited him to his house. I value myself upon making the ministry desire to be acquainted with Parnell, and not Parnell with the ministry.
Сторінка 73 - I am censured of some conceit of mine ability or worth : but, I pray your majesty, impute it to desire, possunt quia posse videntur. And again, I should do some wrong to your majesty's school, if, in sixteen years access and near service, I should think I had learned, or laid in, nothing.
Сторінка 128 - O, for my sake do you with Fortune chide, The guilty goddess of my harmful deeds, That did not better for my life provide Than public means which public manners breeds. Thence comes it that my name receives a brand, 5 And almost thence my nature is subdued To what it works in, like the dyer's hand...
Сторінка 39 - So the struck Eagle, stretched upon the plain, No more through rolling clouds to soar again, Viewed his own feather on the fatal dart, And winged the shaft that quivered in his heart ; Keen were his pangs, but keener far to feel He nursed the pinion which impelled the steel ; While the same plumage that had warmed his nest Drank the last life-drop of his bleeding breast.
Сторінка 148 - 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.