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ancient answer appear asked bear beautiful body born called character Cloth comes death doth drink earth English epigram eyes face fair father Fielding flowers Foote give gold grace hand happy hath head hear heart heaven hour human Illustrations John keep kind king known lady learned leaves letters light lines live London look Lord man's manner married means mind morning nature never night observed once original pass person play poet poor present Queen reason replied rest rich round seems sense sleep sometimes song soon soul speak story sweet tell thee things thou thought true truth turn virtue whole wife wind wise woman write young
Sida 191 - Alas ! they had been friends in youth ; But whispering tongues can poison truth ; And constancy lives in realms above; And life is thorny; and youth is vain; And to be wroth with one we love Doth work like madness in the brain.
Sida 130 - Reading maketh a full man; conference a ready man; and writing an exact man. And therefore, if a man write little, he had need have a great memory; if he confer little, he had need have a present wit; and if he read little, he had need have much cunning, to seem to know that he doth not.
Sida 191 - O for a beaker full of the warm South, Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene, With beaded bubbles winking at the brim, And purple-stained mouth ; That I might drink, and leave the world unseen, And with thee fade away into the forest dim...
Sida 47 - THE poetry of earth is never dead : When all the birds are faint with the hot sun, And hide in cooling trees, a voice will run From hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead ; That is the Grasshopper's — he takes the lead In summer luxury, — he has never done With his delights ; for when tired out with fun He rests at ease beneath some pleasant weed.
Sida 160 - Go, lovely Rose, Tell her that wastes her time and me, That now she knows When I resemble her to thee How sweet and fair she seems to be.
Sida 68 - Ladybird, Ladybird, fly away home, Your house is on fire, your children will burn.
Sida 191 - Away ! away ! for I will fly to thee, Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards, But on the viewless wings of Poesy...
Sida 192 - Forlorn ! the very word is like a bell To toll me back from thee to my sole self ! Adieu ! the fancy cannot cheat so well As she is famed to do, deceiving elf. Adieu ! adieu ! thy plaintive anthem fades Past the near meadows, over the still stream, Up the hill-side; and now 'tis buried deep In the next valley-glades : Was it a vision, or a waking dream? Fled is that music: — do I wake or sleep?