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Страница 89 - To kings, that fear their subjects' treachery ? O, yes it doth ; a thousand-fold it doth. And to conclude, — the shepherd's homely curds, His cold thin drink out of his leather bottle, His wonted sleep under a fresh tree's shade, All which secure and sweetly he enjoys, Is far beyond a prince's delicates, His viands sparkling in a golden cup, • His body couched in a curious bed, When care, mistrust, and treason wait on him.
Страница 251 - And glimmered all the dead men's mail. Blazed battlement and pinnet high, Blazed every rose-carved buttress fair — So still they blaze, when fate is nigh The lordly line of high St Clair.
Страница 167 - Is constant love deem'd there but want of wit? Are beauties there as proud as here they be? Do they above love to be loved, and yet Those lovers scorn whom that love doth possess? Do they call virtue there ungratefulness?
Страница 255 - Thrice happy he, who by some shady grove, Far from the clamorous world, doth live his own ; Though solitary, who is not alone, But doth converse with that eternal Love. O how more sweet is bird's harmonious moan, Or the hoarse sobbings of the widow'd dove, Than those smooth whisperings near a prince's throne, Which good make doubtful, do the evil approve...
Страница 270 - SWEET bird, that sing'st away the early hours Of winters past, or coming, void of care, Well pleased with delights which present are; Fair seasons, budding sprays, sweet-smelling flowers, To rocks, to springs, to rills, from leafy bowers, Thou thy Creator's goodness dost declare, And what dear gifts on thee he did not spare. A stain to human sense in sin that lowers. What soul can be so sick, which by thy songs...
Страница 217 - Love had he found in huts where poor men lie ; His daily teachers had been woods and rills, The silence that is in the starry sky, The sleep that is among the lonely hills.
Страница 238 - And sudden, as he spoke, From the sharp ridges of the hill, All downward to the banks of Till, Was wreathed in sable smoke. Volumed and fast, and rolling far, The cloud enveloped Scotland's war, As down the hill they broke ; Nor martial shout, nor minstrel tone, Announced their march; their tread alone, At times one warning trumpet blown, At times a stifled hum, Told England, from his mountain-throne King James did rushing come.
Страница 207 - The fairest productions of human wit, after a few perusals, like gathered flowers, wither in our hands, and lose their fragrancy ; but these unfading plants of paradise become, as we are accustomed to them, still more and more beautiful; their bloom appears to be daily heightened ; fresh odours are emitted, and new sweets extracted from them. He who hath once tasted their excellencies, will desire to taste them yet again ; and he who tastes them oftenest, will relish them best.