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Сторінка 397 - For so is the will of God that with well doing ye may put to silence the ignorance of foolish men.
Сторінка 176 - A THING of beauty is a joy for ever : Its loveliness increases ; it will never Pass into nothingness ; but still will keep A bower quiet for us, and a sleep Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.
Сторінка 178 - What more felicity can fall to creature Than to enjoy delight with liberty, And to be lord of all the works of nature! To...
Сторінка 442 - Ye have the account Of my performance : what remains, ye gods ! But up, and enter now into full bliss ?" So having said, a while he stood, expecting Their universal shout, and high applause, To fill his ear ; when, contrary, he hears On all sides, from innumerable tongues, A dismal universal hiss, the sound Of public scorn...
Сторінка 178 - The poetry of earth is ceasing never : On a lone winter evening, when the frost Has wrought a silence, from the stove there shrills The cricket's song, in warmth increasing ever, And seems, to one in drowsiness half lost, The grasshopper's among some grassy hills.
Сторінка 174 - The more they on it stare. But her sad eyes, still fastened on the ground, Are governed with goodly modesty That suffers not one look to glance away, 'Which may let in a little thought unsound.
Сторінка 548 - Mr. Lely, I desire you would use all your skill to paint my picture truly like me, and not flatter me at all; but remark all these roughnesses, pimples, warts, and everything as you see me, otherwise I will never pay a farthing for it.
Сторінка 235 - But evil on itself shall back recoil, And mix no more with goodness, when at last, Gathered like scum, and settled to itself, It shall be in eternal restless change Self-fed and self-consumed. If this fail, The pillared firmament is rottenness, And earth's base built on stubble.
Сторінка 175 - Mongst boughs pavilion'd, where the deer's swift leap Startles the wild bee from the fox-glove bell. But though I'll gladly trace these scenes with thee, Yet the sweet converse of an innocent mind, Whose words are images of thoughts refined, Is my soul's pleasure ; and it sure must be Almost the highest bliss of human-kind, When to thy haunts two kindred spirits flee.
Сторінка 100 - There is something in the poetical Arcadia so remote from known reality and speculative possibility, that we can never support its representation through a long work. A pastoral of an hundred lines may be endured ; but who will hear of sheep and goats, and myrtle bowers, and purling rivulets, through five acts? Such scenes please barbarians in the dawn of literature, and children in the dawn of life ; but will be for the most part thrown away, as men grow wise, and nations grow learned.

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