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Sida 37 - Dim as the borrow'd beams of moon and stars To lonely, weary, wandering travellers, Is reason to the soul: and as on high, Those rolling fires discover but the sky, Not light us here; so reason's glimmering ray Was lent, not to assure our doubtful way, But guide us upward to a better day. And as those nightly tapers disappear When day's bright lord ascends our hemisphere; So pale grows reason at religion's sight; So dies, and so dissolves in supernatural light.
Sida 15 - Whosoever will be saved, before all things it is necessary that he hold the catholic faith.
Sida 242 - Submit yourselves to every ordinance of man for the LORD'S sake, whether it be to the King as supreme, or unto governors, as unto them that are sent by him for the punishment of evil-doers, and for the praise of them that do well.
Sida 434 - Shadwell alone my perfect image bears, Mature in dulness from his tender years : Shadwell alone, of all my sons, is he. Who stands confirm'd in full stupidity. The rest to some faint meaning make pretence, But Shadwell never deviates into sense. Some beams of wit on other souls may fall, Strike through, and make a lucid interval ; But Shadwell's genuine night admits no ray, His rising fogs prevail upon the day.
Sida 147 - And after eight days again his disciples were within, and Thomas with them. Then came Jesus, the doors being shut, and stood in the midst and said, Peace be unto you.
Sida 153 - Gainst form and order they their power employ, Nothing to build and all things to destroy. But far more numerous was the herd of such Who think too little and who talk too much. These out of mere instinct, they knew not why, Adored their fathers...
Sida 440 - In thy felonious heart though venom lies, It does but touch thy Irish pen, and dies. Thy genius calls thee not to purchase fame In keen iambics, but mild anagram. Leave writing plays, and choose for thy command Some peaceful province in acrostic land. There thou may'st wings display and altars raise, And torture one poor word ten thousand ways. Or, if thou wouldst thy different talents suit, Set thy own songs, and sing them to thy lute.
Sida 448 - Portugal I sung, Was but the prelude to that glorious day, When thou on silver Thames did'st cut thy way, With...