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xxxv. oldal - O, how wretched Is that poor man, that hangs on princes' favours ! There is, betwixt that smile we would aspire to, That sweet aspect of princes, and their ruin,* More pangs and fears than wars or women have ; And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer, Never to hope again.
xxxv. oldal - Farewell, a long farewell, to all my greatness ! This is the state of man ; to-day he puts forth The tender leaves of hope, to-morrow blossoms, And bears his blushing honours thick upon him : The third day comes a frost, a killing frost ; And,— when he thinks, good easy man, full surely His greatness is a ripening, — nips his root, And then he falls, as I do.
cxciv. oldal - Fit haunt of Gods? where I had hope to spend, Quiet though sad, the respite of that day That must be mortal to us both.
ccxx. oldal - Grief fills the room up of my absent child, Lies in his bed, walks up and down with me, Puts on his pretty looks, repeats his words, Remembers me of all his gracious parts, Stuffs out his vacant garments with his form; Then, have I reason to be fond of grief ? Fare you well: had you such a loss as I, I could give better comfort than you do.
ccxxxviii. oldal - The deep, majestic, solemn organs blow. Hark ! the numbers soft and clear, Gently steal upon the ear ; Now louder and yet louder rise, And fill with spreading sounds the skies: Exulting in triumph now swell the boid notes, In broken air, trembling, the wild music floats ; Till, by degrees, remote and small, The strains decay, And melt away In a dying, dying fall.
cxlvii. oldal - PAUL, a prisoner of Jesus Christ, and Timothy our brother, unto Philemon our dearly beloved, and fellow-labourer, 2 And to our beloved Apphia, and Archippus our fellow-soldier, and to the church in thy house : 3 Grace to you, and peace, from God our Father and the Lord Jesus Christ.
cxlvii. oldal - I have begotten in my bonds ; which in time past was to thee unprofitable, but now profitable to thee and to me, whom I have sent again ; thou therefore receive him, that is, mine own bowels...
cxxxviii. oldal - Lift up your heads, 0 ye gates, and be ye lift up, ye everlasting doors ; and the King of Glory shall come in.
ccxcix. oldal - How lov'd, how honour'd once, avails thee not, To whom related, or by whom begot ; A heap of dust alone remains of thee, 'Tis all thou art, and all the proud shall be ! Poets themselves must fall, like those they sung, Deaf the prais'd ear, and mute the tuneful tongue.