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Сторінка 235 - The very Honey of all earthly joy Does of all meats the soonest cloy, And they (methinks) deserve my pity, Who for it can endure the stings, The crowd, and buzz, and murmurings 10 Of this great hive, the city. Ah, yet, ere I descend to th...
Сторінка 376 - You meaner beauties of the night, That poorly satisfy our eyes More by your number than your light, You common people of the skies; What are you when the moon shall rise?
Сторінка 235 - I descend to the grave May I a small house and large garden have; And a few friends, and many books, both true, Both wise, and both delightful too!
Сторінка 388 - With the swift pilgrim's daubed nest; The groves already did rejoice, In Philomel's triumphing voice, The showers were short, the weather mild, The morning fresh, the evening smiled.
Сторінка 236 - tis the way too thither. How happy here should I, And one dear She, live, and embracing die ! She, who is all the world, and can exclude In deserts solitude. I should have then this only fear — Lest men, when they my pleasures see, Should hither throng to live like me, And so make a city here.
Сторінка 386 - Nor ruin make oppressors great. Who God doth late and early pray More of his grace than gifts to lend; And entertains the harmless day With a religious book or friend.
Сторінка 205 - In a true piece of Wit all things must be, Yet all things there agree. As in the Ark, joyn'd without force or strife, All Creatures dwelt; all Creatures that had Life.
Сторінка 209 - I believe I can tell the particular little chance that filled my head first with such chimes of verse as have never since left ringing there. For I remember when I began to read, and to take some pleasure in it, there was wont to lie in my mother's...
Сторінка 386 - This man is freed from servile bands Of hope to rise or fear to fall : Lord of himself, though not of lands, And, having nothing, yet hath all.
Сторінка 205 - Great Cowley then (a mighty genius) wrote, O'errun with wit, and lavish of his thought: His turns too closely on the reader press; He more had pleased us, had he pleased us less. One glittering thought no sooner strikes our eyes With silent wonder, but new wonders rise.

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