The Works of the English Poets: Buckingham; Lansdowne


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Página 58 - tis fome fate that fets me above wrongs, Yet ftill expofes me to bufy tongues. I'll not complain; for who's difpleas'd with love, If it fincere, difcreet, and conftant prove? But that I fear; not that I think you bafe, Or doubt the blooming beauties of my face; But all your fex is fubjeft to deceive, And ours, alas, too willing to believe.
Página 62 - Love secretly : the absence of my lord More freedom gives, but does not all afford. Long is his journey, long will be his stay, Called by affairs of consequence away.
Página 61 - O you pow'rs above, How rude I am in all the arts of love! My hand is yet untaught to write to men: This is th...
Página 80 - Read Homer once, and you can read no more ; For all books else appear so mean, so poor, Verse will seem prose : but still persist to read. And Homer will be all the books you need.
Página 234 - Dryden himfelf, to pleafe a frantic age, Was forc'd to let his judgment ftoop to rage ; To a wild audience he conform'd his voice, Comply'd to cuftom, but not err'd through choice. Deem then the people's, not the writer's fin, Almanfor's rage, and rants of Maximin ; That fury fpent in each elaborate piece, He vies for fame with ancient Rome and Greece.
Página 84 - tis not furcly of fo fair renown To fpill another's blood, as to expofe our own : Of all that's ours we cannot give too much, But what belongs to friendfhip, oh! 'tis facrilege to touch.
Página 63 - Yet grant you were to faithful love inclin'd, Your weary Trojans wait but for a wind.
Página 14 - Keav'n will have, Their Fears eclipfe the Glory of -their Grave: Before thy Face they make indecent Moan, And feel a hundred Deaths in fearing one ; Thy Flame becomes unhallow'd in their Breaft, And he a Murderer who was a Prieft.
Página 186 - Where dwells this peace, this freedom of the mind ! where, but in shades remote from human kind; in flowery vales, where nymphs and shepherds meet, but never comes within the palace gate.
Página 177 - Ungrateful nymphs, and though a God, ador'd? When could my wit, my beauty, or my youth, Move a hard heart? or, mov'd, fecure its truth'?

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