The Works of the English Poets: With Prefaces, Biographical and Critical, 8. kötet

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Samuel Johnson
C. Bathurst, 1779
 

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232. oldal - For then we know how vain it was to boast Of fleeting things, so certain to be lost. Clouds of affection from our younger eyes Conceal that emptiness which age descries. 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.
231. oldal - 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.
79. oldal - Hermes' rod, And powerful, too, as either god TO PHYLLIS. PHYLLIS ! why should we delay Pleasures shorter than the day Could we (which we never can Stretch our lives beyond their span, Beauty like a shadow flies, And our youth before us dies. Or would youth and beauty stay, Love hath wings, and will away. Love hath swifter wings than Time ; Change in love to heaven does climb. Gods, that never change their state, Vary oft their love and hate.
99. oldal - 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.
137. oldal - 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...
135. oldal - 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.
87. oldal - 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.
10. oldal - Among other improvements, we may reckon that of his rhymes, which are always good, and very often the better for being new.
136. oldal - Gold, though the heaviest metal, hither swims. Ours is the harvest where the Indians mow, We plough the deep, and reap what others sow.
7. oldal - Our language owes more to him than the French does to Cardinal Richelieu, and the whole Academy. A poet cannot think of him without being in the same rapture Lucretius is in when Epicurus comes in his way.

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