The Works of the Author of the Night-thoughts, 2. kötet

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J. Dodsley [and others], 1792 - 339 oldal

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204. oldal - At thirty man suspects himself a fool ; Knows it at forty, and reforms his plan ; At fifty chides his infamous delay, Pushes his prudent purpose to resolve; In all the magnanimity of thought Resolves and re-resolves; then dies the same.
203. oldal - tis madness to defer: Next day the fatal precedent 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.
193. oldal - We take no note of time But from its loss. To give it then a tongue Is wise in man. As if an angel spoke, I feel the solemn sound. If heard aright, It is the knell of my departed hours : Where are they ? With the years beyond the flood.
219. oldal - That common, but opprobrious lot ! past hours, If not by guilt, yet wound us by their flight, If folly bounds our prospect by the grave...
204. oldal - ... immortal. All men think all men mortal but themselves ; Themselves, when some alarming shock of Fate Strikes through their wounded hearts the sudden dread : But their hearts wounded, like the wounded air, Soon close; where past the shaft no trace is found.
193. oldal - Lead it through various scenes of life and death; And from each scene the noblest truths inspire. Nor less inspire my conduct than my song ; Teach my best reason, reason ; my best will...
215. oldal - Like num'rous wings around him, as he flies : Or, rather, as unequal plumes, they shape His ample pinions, swift as darted flame, To gain his goal, to reach his ancient...
241. oldal - Our dying friends come o'er us like a cloud, To damp our brainless ardours, and abate That glare of life which often blinds the wise. Our dying friends are pioneers, to smooth...
203. oldal - For ever on the brink of being born. All pay themselves the compliment to think They one day shall not drivel; and their pride On this reversion takes up ready praise; At least their own; their future selves applauds.
252. oldal - Death's tremendous blow. The knell, the shroud, the mattock, and the grave; The deep damp vault, the darkness, and the worm ; These are the bugbears of a winter's eve, The terrors of the living, not the dead. Imagination's fool, and Error's wretch, Man makes a death which Nature never made : Then on the point of his own fancy falls, And feels a thousand deaths in fearing one.

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