The Works of the English Poets: With Prefaces, Biographical and Critical, Том 45

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H. Hughs, 1779

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Страница 86 - Griev'd I forgive, and am grown cool too late; Young and unthoughtful then, who knows one day What ripening virtues might have made their way! He...
Страница 194 - Boast petty courts, whence rules new rigour draw, Unknown to Nature's and to statute-law ; Quirks that explain all saving rights away, To give th' attorney and the catchpoll prey.
Страница 39 - Can its foot sharpen, like the vulture's claw? Can the fond goat, or tender fleecy dam, Howl, like the wolf, to tear the kid, or lamb? Yes, there are mothers...
Страница 83 - I will suffer my pardon as my punishment, till that life, which has so graciously been given me, shall become considerable enough not to be useless in his service to whom it was forfeited.
Страница 18 - Fenton's lay appears, And the ripe judgment of inftruftive years. 330 In Hill is all,that generous fouls revere, To Virtue and the Mufe for ever dear : And Thomfon, in this praife, thy merit fee, The tongue, that praifes merit, praifes thee.
Страница 86 - Pity's eye condemn'd to see. Remembrance veils his rage, but swells his fate ; Griev'd I forgive, and am grown cool too late. Young, and unthoughtful then ; who knows, one day...
Страница 88 - Her fmile more cheerful than a vernal morn, All life ! all bloom ! of Youth and Fancy born. Touch'd into joy, what hearts to her fubmit ! She looks her Sire, and fpeaks her Mother's wit. O'er the gay world the fweet infpirer reigns . Spleen flies, and Elegance her pomp fuftains.
Страница 177 - Some ring or letter now reveals th' intrigue : Queens, with their minions, work unfeemly things, And boys grow dukes, when catamites to kings. Does a prince die ? What poifons they furmife ! No royal mortal fure by nature dies.
Страница 87 - Bastard, he laments in a very affecting manner : — No Mother's care Shielded my infant innocence with prayer ; No Father's guardian hand my youth maintain'd, Call'd forth my virtues, or from vice restrain'd.
Страница 85 - I had been born your dull, domestic heir, Load of your life, and motive of your care; Perhaps been poorly rich, and meanly great, The slave of pomp, a cypher in the state ; Lordly neglectful of a worth unknown, And slumbering in a seat by chance my own.

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