Nugæ metricæ [selections from the English poets, with Lat. tr.] by sir H.H., bart

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20. oldal - That patient merit of the unworthy takes, When he himself might his quietus make With a bare bodkin ? Who would fardels bear, To grunt and sweat under a weary life, But that the dread of something after death, The undiscover'd country from whose bourn No traveller returns, puzzles the will, And makes us rather bear those ills we have Than fly to others that we know not of...
18. oldal - Ay, but to die, and go we know not where ; To lie in cold obstruction, and to rot ; This sensible warm motion to become A kneaded clod...
20. oldal - tis nobler in the mind to suffer The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, Or to take arms against a sea of troubles, And by opposing end them? To die: to sleep...
20. oldal - Must give us pause : there's the respect, That makes calamity of so long life : For who would bear the whips and scorns of time...
20. oldal - To die, to sleep; To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub : For in that sleep of death what dreams may come When we have shuffled off this mortal coil...
8. oldal - No wither'd witch shall here be seen, No goblins lead their nightly crew; The female fays shall haunt the green, And dress thy grave with pearly dew ! The red-breast oft at evening hours Shall kindly lend his little aid, With hoary moss, and gather'd flowers, To deck the ground where thou art laid.
20. oldal - To be, or not to be! that is the question. Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer The stings and arrows of outrageous fortune; Or to take arms against a sea of troubles, And by opposing end them ! To die...
10. oldal - When lovely woman stoops to folly, And finds too late that men betray ; What charm can soothe her melancholy, What art can wash her guilt away ? The only art her guilt to cover, To hide her shame from every eye, To give repentance to her lover, And wring his bosom — is to die.
16. oldal - Heaven from all creatures hides the book of Fate, All but the page prescribed, their present state: From brutes what men, from men what spirits know: Or who could suffer being here below? The lamb thy riot dooms to bleed to-day, Had he thy reason, would he skip and play? Pleased to the last, he crops the flowery food, And licks the hand just raised to shed his blood.
16. oldal - Me, let the tender office long engage, To rock the cradle of reposing age, With lenient arts extend a mother's breath, Make languor smile, and smooth the bed of death, Explore the thought, explain the asking eye, And keep awhile one parent from the sky...

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