The British Muse: Or, A Collection of Thoughts, Moral, Natural, and Sublime, of Our English Poets: who Flourished in the Sixteenth and Seventeenth Centuries ...

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Seite 39 - Neither a borrower nor a lender be; For loan oft loses both itself and friend, And borrowing dulls the edge of husbandry.
Seite 128 - Heaven doth with us as we with torches do, Not light them for themselves ; for if our virtues Did not go forth of us, 'twere all alike As if we had them not. Spirits are not finely touch'd But to fine issues, nor Nature never lends The smallest scruple of her excellence, But, like a thrifty goddess, she determines Herself the glory of a creditor, Both thanks and use.
Seite 24 - tis a common proof, That lowliness is young ambition's ladder, Whereto the climber-upward turns his face; But when he once attains the upmost round, He then unto the ladder turns his back, Looks in the clouds, scorning the base degrees By which he did ascend: so Caesar may; Then, lest he may, prevent.
Seite 161 - He was perfumed like a milliner, And 'twixt his finger and his thumb he held A pouncet-box, which ever and anon He gave his nose and took't away again; Who therewith angry, when it next came there, Took it in snuff...
Seite 161 - But, I remember, when the fight was done, When I was dry with rage, and extreme toil, Breathless and faint, leaning upon my sword, Came there a certain lord, neat, trimly...
Seite 13 - Sweet are the uses of adversity, Which, like the toad.' ugly and venomous, Wears yet a precious jewel in his head ; And this our life, exempt from public haunt, Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, Sermons in, stones, and good in every thing.
Seite 218 - Your face, my thane, is as a book, where men May read strange matters : — To beguile the time, Look like the time; bear welcome in your eye, Your hand, your tongue: look like the innocent flower, But be the serpent under it.
Seite 82 - tis better to be lowly born, And range with humble livers in content, Than to be perk'd up in a glistering grief, And wear a golden sorrow.
Seite 176 - A damn'd defeat was made. Am I a coward ? Who calls me villain ? breaks my pate across ? Plucks off my beard, and blows it in my face ? Tweaks me by the nose ? gives me the lie i' the throat, As deep as to the lungs ? Who does me this ? Ha!
Seite 75 - tis the appetite Makes eating a delight, And if I like one dish More than another, that a pheasant is : What in our watches, that in us is found ; So to the height and nick We up be wound, No matter by what hand or trick.