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Сторінка 340 - Ambergris on shore. He cast (of which we rather boast) The Gospel's Pearl upon our Coast. And in these Rocks for us did frame A Temple, where to sound his Name. Oh let our Voice his Praise exalt, Till it arrive at Heaven's Vault : Which thence (perhaps) rebounding may Echo beyond the Mexique Bay.
Сторінка 55 - I will not wish unto you the ass's ears of Midas, nor to be driven by a poet's verses (as Bubonax was) to hang himself, nor to be rhymed to death, as is said to be done in Ireland; yet thus much curse I must send you, in the behalf of all poets, that while you live, you live in love, and never get favour for lacking skill of a Sonnet, and, when you die, your memory die from the earth for want of an Epitaph.
Сторінка 47 - ... the heavenly Maker of that maker, who having made man to His own likeness, set him beyond and over all the works of that second nature ; which in nothing he showeth so much as in poetry ; when, with the force of a divine breath, he bringeth things forth surpassing her doings...
Сторінка 335 - But Sylvio soon had me beguiled: This waxed tame, while he grew wild, And quite regardless of my smart, Left me his Fawn, but took his Heart. Thenceforth I set myself to play My solitary time away With this, and very well content Could so mine idle life have spent.
Сторінка 341 - That Majesty which through thy Work doth Reign Draws the Devout, deterring the Profane. And things divine thou treat'st of in such state As them preserves, and thee, inviolate. At once delight and horror on us seize, Thou...
Сторінка 51 - ... since the Holy Scripture (wherein there is no uncleanness) hath whole parts in it poetical, and that even our Saviour Christ vouchsafed to use the flowers of it; since all his kinds are not only in their united forms, but in their severed dissections fully commendable ; I think, and think I think rightly, the laurel crown appointed for triumphant captains, doth worthily, of all other learnings, honor the poet's triumph.
Сторінка 73 - Richard, Richard, dost thou think we'll hear thee poison the court? Richard, thou art an old fellow, an old knave; thou hast written books enough to load a cart, every one as full of sedition, I might say treason, as an egg is full of meat. Hadst thou been whipped out of thy writing trade forty years ago, it had been happy.
Сторінка 339 - Shed from the bosom of the morn, Into the blowing roses, (Yet careless of its mansion new, For the clear region where 'twas born,) Round in itself incloses And, in its little globe's extent, Frames, as it can, its native element.
Сторінка 354 - Come, leave the loathed stage, And the more loathsome age ; Where pride and impudence, in faction knit, Usurp the chair of wit ! Indicting and arraigning every day Something they call a play. Let their fastidious, vain Commission of the brain Run on and rage, sweat, censure, and condemn ; They were not made for thee, less thou for them. Say that thou pour'st them wheat, And they will acorns eat ; 'Twere simple...