The Works of the English Poets: Waller

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Страница 232 - The soul's dark cottage, battered and decayed, Lets in new light through chinks that Time has made: Stronger by weakness, wiser men become As they draw near to their eternal home. Leaving the old, both worlds at once they view That stand upon the threshold of the new.
Страница 135 - Whether this portion of the world were rent By the rude ocean from the continent, Or thus created, it was sure design'd To be the sacred refuge of mankind.
Страница 137 - A race unconquer'd, by their clime made bold, The Caledonians, arm'd with want and cold, Have, by a fate indulgent to your fame, Been from all ages kept for you to tame. Whom the old Roman wall...
Страница 231 - The seas are quiet when the winds give o'er : So calm are we when passions are no more ! For then we know how vain it was to boast Of fleeting things, so certain to be lost.
Страница 151 - For future shade, young trees upon the banks Of the new stream appear in even ranks : The voice of Orpheus, or Amphion's hand, In better order could not make them stand...
Страница 136 - Of her own growth hath all that nature craves, And all that's rare, as tribute from the waves. As ./Egypt does not on the clouds rely, But to...
Страница 99 - Then die! that she The common fate of all things rare May read in thee; How small a part of time they share That are so wondrous sweet and fair!
Страница 87 - ON A GIRDLE. That which her slender waist confined, Shall now my joyful temples bind ; No monarch but would give his crown His arms might do what this has done. It was my heaven's extremest sphere, The pale which held that lovely deer, My joy, my grief, my hope, my love, Did all within this circle move. A narrow compass, and yet there Dwelt all that's good and all that's fair; Give me but what this ribband bound, Take all the rest the sun goes round.
Страница 9 - There was no distinction of parts, no regular stops, nothing for the ear to rest upon ; but as soon as the copy began, down it went like a larum, incessantly ; and the reader was sure to be out of breath before he got to the end of it : so that really verse, in those days, was but downright prose tagged with rhymes.
Страница 136 - Gold, though the heaviest metal, hither swims. Ours is the harvest where the Indians mow, We plough the deep, and reap what others sow.

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