The Poetical Works of John Dryden, 3. kötet

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J. W. Parker and Son, 1854

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Tartalomjegyzék

I
7
II
99
III
150
IV
162
V
172

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160. oldal - Three poets in three distant ages born, Greece, Italy, and England did adorn; The first in loftiness of thought surpassed, The next in majesty; in both the last. The force of Nature could no further go, To make a third she joined the former two.
31. oldal - Since every man who lives is born to die, And none can boast sincere felicity; With equal mind what happens let us bear, Nor joy nor grieve too much for things beyond our care. Like pilgrims, to the' appointed place we tend ; The world's an inn, and death the journey's end. E'en kings but play; and when their part is done, Some other, worse or better, mount the throne.
150. oldal - FAREWELL, too little and too lately known, Whom I began to think and call my own: For sure our souls were near allied, and thine Cast in the same poetic mould with mine. One common note on either lyre did strike, And knaves and fools we both abhorred alike.
169. oldal - Chase from our minds the infernal foe, And peace, the fruit of Love, bestow ; And lest our feet should step astray, Protect and guide us in the way.
98. oldal - Where all submitted, none the battle tried. The senseless plea of right by Providence Was, by a flattering priest, invented since, And lasts no longer than the present sway ; But justifies the next who comes in play.
151. oldal - O early ripe ! to thy abundant store What could advancing Age have added more ? It might (what Nature never gives the young) Have taught the numbers of thy native tongue. But Satire needs not those, and wit will shine Through the harsh cadence of a rugged line.
156. oldal - MARK how the lark and linnet sing : With rival notes They strain their warbling throats, To welcome in the Spring.
242. oldal - Was the first mountebank that trod the stage ; Yet Athens never knew your learned sport, Of tossing poets in a tennis-court. But 'tis the talent of our English nation Still to be plotting some new reformation...
221. oldal - Tis much more hard to please himself than you : And, out of no feign'd modesty, this day Damns his laborious trifle of a play : Not that it's worse than what before he writ, But he has now another taste of wit; And, to confess a truth, though out of time, Grows weary of his long-loved mistress, Rhyme.
221. oldal - Passion's too fierce to be in fetters bound, And nature flies him like enchanted ground: What verse can do he has perform'd in this, Which he presumes the most correct of his...

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