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Page 87 - GIRDLE That which her slender waist confined, Shall now my joyful temples bind; No monarch but would give his crown, His arms might do what this has done. It was my heaven's extremest sphere, The pale which held that lovely deer. My joy, my grief, my hope, my love, Did all within this circle move! A narrow compass! and yet there Dwelt all that's good, and all that's fair; Give me but what this ribband bound, Take all the rest the sun goes round.
Page 228 - For then we know how vain it was to boast Of fleeting things, so certain to be lost. Clouds of affection from our younger eyes Conceal that emptiness which age descries. The soul's dark cottage, battered and decayed, Lets in new light through chinks that Time has made: Stronger by weakness, wiser men become As they draw near to their eternal home. Leaving the old, both worlds at once they view That stand upon the threshold of the new.
Page 87 - ON A GIRDLE THAT which her slender waist confined Shall now my joyful temples bind: No monarch but would give his crown His arms might do what this has done. It was my Heaven's extremest sphere, The pale which held that lovely deer: My joy, my grief, my hope, my love Did all within this circle move. A narrow compass ! and yet there Dwelt all that's good, and all that's fair: Give me but what this ribband bound, Take all the rest the Sun goes round.
Page 172 - The beauties which adorn'd that age, The shining subjects of his rage, Hoping they should immortal prove, Rewarded with success his love. This was the generous poet's scope, And all an English pen can hope, To make the fair approve his flame, That can so far extend their fame.
Page 135 - Whether this portion of the world were rent By the rude ocean from the continent, Or thus created, it Was sure design'd To be the sacred refuge of mankind.
Page 86 - Makes it full fummer, e'er the fpring's begun : And with ripe fruit the bending boughs can load, Before our violets dare look abroad : So, meafure not by any common ufe, The early love your brighter eyes produce.
Page 99 - Small is the worth Of beauty from the light retir'd, Bid her come forth, Suffer herself to be desir'd, And not blush so to be admir'd. Then die ! that she The common fate of all things rare May read in thee : How small a part of time they share, That are so wondrous sweet and fair.
Page 233 - THAT the First Charles does here in triumph ride, See his son reign where he a martyr died, And people pay that reverence as they pass, (Which then he wanted !) to the sacred brass, Is not the...
Page 7 - Our language owes more to him than the French does to Cardinal Richelieu, and the whole Academy. A poet cannot think of him without being in the same rapture Lucretius is in when Epicurus comes in his way.