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224. oldal - Wisdom's self Oft seeks to sweet retired solitude ; Where, with her best nurse, Contemplation, She plumes her feathers, and lets grow her wings, That in the various bustle of resort Were all too ruffled, and sometimes impair'd. He that has light within his own clear breast, May sit i...
287. oldal - And, though the shady gloom Had given day her room, The sun himself withheld his wonted speed, And hid his head" for shame, As his inferior flame The new-enlighten'd world no more should need ; He saw a greater sun appear Than his bright throne, or burning axle-tree, could bear.
260. oldal - Spare Fast, that oft with gods doth diet, And hears the Muses in a ring Aye round about Jove's altar sing...
288. oldal - tis said) Before was never made, But when of old the sons of morning sung, While the Creator great His constellations set, And the well-balanced world on hinges hung ; And cast the dark foundations deep, And bid the weltering waves their oozy channel keep.
196. oldal - Of bees' industrious murmur, oft invites To studious musing; there Ilissus rolls His whispering stream : within the walls then view The schools of ancient sages ; his, who bred Great Alexander to subdue the world, Lyceum there, and painted Stoa next...
255. oldal - Haste thee, Nymph, and bring with thee Jest, and youthful Jollity, Quips, and Cranks, and wanton Wiles, Nods, and Becks, and wreathed Smiles, Such as hang on Hebe's cheek, And love to live in dimple sleek; Sport that wrinkled Care derides, And Laughter holding both his sides.
250. oldal - Phoebus replied, and touched my trembling ears: "Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil, Nor in the glistering foil Set off to the world, nor in broad rumour lies, But lives and spreads aloft by those pure eyes And perfect witness of all-judging Jove; As He pronounces lastly on each deed, Of so much fame in heaven expect thy meed.
260. oldal - There, held in holy passion still, Forget thyself to marble, till With a sad leaden downward cast Thou fix them on the earth as fast.
262. oldal - Pelops' line, Or the tale of Troy divine ; Or what (though rare) of later age Ennobled hath the buskin'd stage. But O, sad virgin, that thy power Might raise Musaeus from his bower? Or bid the soul of Orpheus sing Such notes as, warbled to the string, Drew iron tears down Pluto's cheek, And made Hell grant what love did seek ! Or call up him that left...
256. oldal - Straight mine eye hath caught new pleasures, Whilst the landscape round it measures ; Russet lawns and fallows gray, Where the nibbling flocks do stray; Mountains, on whose barren breast The labouring clouds do often rest ; Meadows trim, with daisies pied, Shallow brooks, and rivers wide ; Towers and battlements it sees Bosom'd high in tufted trees, Where, perhaps, some beauty lies, The cynosure of neighbouring eyes.