The Works of the English Poets: With Prefaces, Biographical and Critical, 43. köide

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Samuel Johnson
C. Bathurst, 1779
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Page 300 - And then conclude divinely with their own ; Like oil on water mounts the prelate up, His grace is always fure to be at top ; That vein of mercury its beams will fpread, And mine more ftrongly thro
Page 407 - Secrets, draw no Charafters, For Echo will repeat, and Walls have Ears : Nor let a bufy Fool a Secret know, A Secret gripes him till he lets it go : Words are like Bullets, and we wifh in vain, When once difcharg'd, to call them back again. «#«»»* * ******•**#•*#* ****************** Defend, dear Spence, the honeft and the civil, But to cry up a Rafcal that's the Devil. Who guards a good Man's Charafter, 'tis known, At the fame Time protefts and guards his own. For as with Houfes, 'tis with...
Page 393 - Till generous Bacchus help'd to fan the fire. Warm'd by two Gods at once, they drink and write, Rhyme all the day, and tipple all the night.
Page 331 - Then grieved returns, or waits with vain delay Till the tumultuous deluge rolls away. But in no Iliad let the youth engage His tender years, and...
Page 301 - Nay, though flie licks the Ruins, all her Cares Scarce mend the Lumps, and bring them but to Bears. Ye Country Vicars, when you preach in Town A Turn at Paul's, to pay your Journey down, If...
Page 61 - If aught on earth, when once this breath is fled, With human tranfport touch the mighty dead...
Page 244 - Led by his arm, undaunted I appear In the firft ranks of death, and front of war. He taught me firft the pointed fpear to wield, And mow the glorious harveft of the field. By him infpir'd, from ftrength to ftrength I part, Plung'd through the troops, and laid the battle wafte.
Page 164 - When pain afflicts, or sickness grieves, Its juice the drooping heart relieves; And, after death, its odours shed A pleasing fragrance o'er the dead; And when its withering charms decay, And sinking, fading, die away; Triumphant o'er the rage of time, It keeps the fragrance of its prime.
Page 394 - Let the grave judges too the glafs forbear, Who never fing and dance but once a year. This truth once known, our poets take the hint, Get drunk or mad, and then get into print: To raife their flames indulge the mellow fit, And lofe their fenfes in the fearch of wit: * Late r.illn.n of London. And when with claret fir'd they take the pen, Swear they can write, becaufe they drink, like Ben.
Page 270 - You praife low-living, but you live at large. Perhaps you fcarce believe the rules you teach, Or find it hard to praftife what you preach.

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