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162. oldal - O, what a noble mind is here o'erthrown! The courtier's, soldier's, scholar's, eye, tongue, sword; The expectancy and rose of the fair state, The glass of fashion and the mould of form, The observed of all observers, quite, quite down!
130. oldal - tis madness to defer ; Next day the fatal prectdent will plead; Thus on, till wisdom is push'd out of life. Procrastination is the thief of time ; Year after year it steals, till all are fled, And to the mercies of a moment leaves The vast concerns of an eternal scene.
63. oldal - Thou'dst meet the bear i' the mouth. When the mind's free The body's delicate; the tempest in my mind Doth from my senses take all feeling else Save what beats there.
115. oldal - To be resign'd when ills betide, Patient when favours are denied, And pleas'd with favours given ; Dear Cloe, this is wisdom's part, This is that incense of the heart, Whose fragrance smells to heaven.
135. oldal - The wise and active conquer difficulties, By daring to attempt them. Sloth and folly Shiver and shrink at sight of toil and hazard, And make th
209. oldal - Reflect that life and death, affecting sounds ! Are only varied modes of endless being ; Reflect that life, like every other blessing, Derives its value from its use alone ; Not for itself, but for a nobler end, Th' Eternal gave it, and that end is virtue.
209. oldal - Eternal gave it, and that end is virtue. When inconsistent with a greater good, Reason commands to cast the less away ; Thus life, with loss of wealth is well preserv'd, And virtue cheaply sav'd with loss of life.
115. oldal - From the gay world we'll oft retire To our own family and fire, Where love our hours employs ; No noisy neighbour enters here, No intermeddling stranger near, To spoil our heartfelt joys.
46. oldal - Labour and rest, that equal periods keep ; "Obedient slumbers that can wake and weep;" Desires composed, affections ever even; Tears that delight, and sighs that waft to heaven.
84. oldal - What medicine can any leaches art Yeeld such a sore, that doth her grievance hide, And will to none her maladie impart ! Such was the wound that Scudamour did gride; For which Dan Phebus selfe cannot a salve provide.

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