The Works of the English Poets: With Prefaces, Biographical and Critical, 54. köide

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Samuel Johnson
C. Bathurst, 1779
 

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Page 233 - Twas her own country bred the flock so fair; 'Twas her own labour did the fleece prepare...
Page 130 - Alas ! from the day that we met What hope of an end to my woes ? When I cannot endure to forget The glance that undid my repose. Yet time may diminish the pain : The flower, and the shrub, and the tree, Which I rear'd for her pleasure in vain, In time may have comfort for me.
Page 125 - Not a pine in my grove is there seen, But with tendrils of woodbine is bound; Not a beech's more beautiful green. But a sweet-briar entwines it around. Not my fields in the prime of the year, More charms than my cattle unfold; Not a brook that is limpid and clear, But it glitters with fishes of gold.
Page 237 - But ah ! what pen his piteous plight may trace ? Or what device his loud laments explain? The form uncouth of his disguised face ? The pallid hue that dyes his looks amain ? The plenteous shower that does his cheek distain...
Page 123 - I fed on the smiles of my dear ? They tell me, my favourite maid, The pride of that valley, is flown ; Alas ! where with her I have stray'd, I could wander with pleasure, alone.
Page 123 - I priz'd every hour that went by, Beyond all that had pleas'd me before; But now they are past, and I sigh ; And I grieve that I priz'd them no more.
Page 68 - Th'. habitual fcene of hill and dale, The rural herds, the vernal gale, The tangled vetch's purple bloom, The fragrance of the bean's perfume, Be theirs alone who cultivate the foil, And drink the cup of thirft, and eat the bread of toil But foon the pageant fades away ! 'Tis nature only bears perpetual fway.
Page 94 - Each wayward paffion foon would tear His bofom, now fo void of care ; And, when they left his ebbing vein, What, but...
Page 242 - And must be bought, though penury betide. The plumb all azure and the nut all brown, And here each season do those cakes abide, Whose honour'd names th* inventive city own, Rendering through Britain's isle Salopia's praises known.
Page 96 - The river gliding down the dale ! The hill with beeches crown'd ! But now, when urg'd by tender woes I fpeed to meet my dear, That hill and ftream my zeal oppofe, And check my fond career.

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