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Adam Angels appeared arms behold BOOK bounds bring called Chaos cloud created dark death deep delight divine doubt dwell Earth equal eternal evil eyes fair faith fall Father fear fell fire fruit glory gods grace hand happy hast hath head heard heart Heaven Heavenly Hell hill hope human King leave less light live look Milton mind move Nature never night once pain Paradise Lost passed peace perhaps poem raised reason receive reign remains replied rest rise round Satan seat seemed shape side sight soon spake Sphere Spirits stand stars stood sweet taste thee thence things thou thought throne till tree turned Universe virtue voice wide wings wonder World
Сторінка 534 - That to the faithful herdman's art belongs! What recks it them? What need they? They are sped; And when they list, their lean and flashy songs Grate on their scrannel pipes of wretched straw; The hungry sheep look up, and are not fed, But swol'n with wind and the rank mist they draw Rot inwardly, and foul contagion spread: Besides what the grim wolf with privy paw Daily devours apace, and nothing said: — But that two-handed engine at the door Stands ready to smite once, and smite no more.
Сторінка 533 - Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise 70 (That last infirmity of noble mind) To scorn delights, and live laborious days; But the fair guerdon when we hope to find, And think to burst out into sudden blaze, Comes the blind Fury with the abhorred shears, And slits the thin-spun life. "But not the praise...
Сторінка 484 - The oracles are dumb, No voice or hideous hum Runs through the arched roof in words deceiving. Apollo from his shrine Can no more divine, With hollow shriek the steep of Delphos leaving. No nightly trance, or breathed spell, Inspires the pale-eyed priest from the prophetic cell.
Сторінка 115 - Sweet is the breath of morn, her rising sweet, With charm of earliest birds; pleasant the sun, When first on this delightful land he spreads His orient beams, on herb, tree, fruit, and flower, Glistering with dew; fragrant the fertile earth After soft showers; and sweet the coming on Of grateful evening
Сторінка 495 - Haste thee, nymph, and bring with thee Jest, and youthful jollity, Quips, and cranks, and wanton wiles, Nods, and becks, and wreathed smiles, Such as hang on Hebe's cheek, And love to live in dimple sleek : Sport that wrinkled Care derides, And Laughter holding both his sides.
Сторінка 546 - CYRIACK, this three years' day these eyes, though clear, To outward view, of blemish or of spot, Bereft of light, their seeing have forgot; Nor to their idle orbs doth sight appear Of sun, or moon, or star, throughout the year, Or man, or woman. Yet I argue not Against Heaven's hand or will, nor bate a jot Of heart or hope, but still bear up and steer Right onward. What supports me, dost thou ask ? The conscience, friend, to have lost them overplied In Liberty's defence, my noble task, Of which all...
Сторінка 13 - I am now indebted, as being a work not to be raised from the heat of youth, or the vapours of wine, like that which flows at waste from the pen of some vulgar amorist, or the trencher fury of a riming parasite, nor to be obtained by the invocation of Dame Memory and her Siren Daughters, but by devout prayer to that Eternal Spirit who can enrich with all utterance and knowledge, and sends out his seraphim with the hallowed fire of his altar to touch and purify the lips of whom he pleases.
Сторінка 61 - HIGH on a throne of royal state, which far Outshone the wealth of Ormus and of Ind, Or where the gorgeous East with richest hand Showers on her kings barbaric pearl and gold, Satan exalted sat, by merit raised To that bad eminence...
Сторінка 518 - The unpolluted temple of the mind, And turns it by degrees to the soul's essence, Till all be made immortal : but when lust By unchaste looks, loose gestures, and foul talk ; But most by lewd and lavish act of sin, Lets in defilement to the inward parts, The soul grows clotted by contagion, Imbodies, and imbrutes, till she quite lose The divine property of her first being.
Сторінка 535 - Weep no more, woeful shepherds, weep no more, For Lycidas, your sorrow, is not dead, Sunk though he be beneath the watery floor. So sinks the day-star in the ocean bed, And yet anon repairs his drooping head, And tricks his beams, and with new-spangled ore Flames in the forehead of the morning sky...