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Seite 233 - The forward violet thus did I chide: Sweet thief, whence didst thou steal thy sweet that smells, If not from my love's breath ? The purple pride Which on thy soft cheek for complexion dwells In my love's veins thou hast too grossly dyed.
Seite 109 - And purple all the ground with vernal flowers. Bring the rathe primrose that forsaken dies, The tufted crow-toe, and pale jessamine, The white pink, and the pansy freaked with jet, The glowing violet, The musk-rose, and the well-attired woodbine, With cowslips wan that hang the pensive head, And every flower that sad embroidery wears; Bid amaranthus all his beauty shed, And daffodillies fill their cups with tears, To strew the laureate hearse where Lycid lies.
Seite 39 - All the traditional accounts of him, the historians of the last age, and its best authors, represent him, as the most incorrupt lawyer, and the honestest statesman ; as a master orator, a genius of the finest taste, and as a patriot of the noblest and most extensive views ; as a man, who dispensed blessings by his life, and planned them for posterity.
Seite 127 - Britain's isle, no matter where, An ancient pile of building stands ; The Huntingdons and Hattons there Employ'd the power of fairy hands To raise the ceiling's fretted height, Each pannel in achievements clothing, Rich windows that exclude the light, And passages, that lead to nothing.
Seite 150 - Now the bright morning star, day's harbinger, Comes dancing from the east, and leads with her The flowery May, who from her green lap throws The yellow cowslip, and the pale primrose. Hail, bounteous May, that dost inspire Mirth, and youth, and warm desire ; Woods and groves are of thy dressing, Hill and dale doth boast thy blessing. Thus we salute thee with our early song, And welcome thee, and wish thee long.
Seite 127 - Full oft within the spacious walls, When he had fifty winters o'er him, My grave lord-keeper led the brawls ; The seal and maces danced before him. His bushy beard, and shoe-strings green, His high-crown'd hat, and satin doublet, Moved the stout heart of England's queen, Though Pope and Spaniard could not trouble it.
Seite 58 - But we their sons, a pamper'd race of men, Are dwindled down to three-score years and ten. Better to hunt in fields for health unbought, Than fee the doctor for a nauseous draught. The wise for cure on exercise depend: God never made His work for man to mend.
Seite 149 - tis too horrible ! The weariest and most loathed worldly life, That age, ache, penury, and imprisonment Can lay on nature, is a paradise To what we fear of death.