Egeria! sweet creation of some heart Which found no mortal resting-place so fair As thine ideal breast.
Ecclesiastes said that "all is vanity," Most modern preachers say the same, or show it By their examples of true Christianity: In short, all know, or very short may know it.
Oh, Christ! it is a goodly sight to see What Heaven hath done for this delicious land!
The simple Wordsworth . . . / Who, both by precept and example, shows / That prose is verse, and verse is merely prose.
Shakespeare's name, you may depend on it, stands absurdly too high and will go down.
Nor all that heralds rake from coffin'd clay, Nor florid prose, nor honied lies of rhyme, Can blazon evil deeds, or consecrate a crime.
It is very iniquitous to make me pay my debts - you have no idea of the pain it gives one.
The devil hath not, in all his quiver's choice, An arrow for the heart like a sweet voice.
Know ye not who would be free themselves must strike the blow? by their right arms the conquest must be wrought?
O Fame! if I ever took delight in thy praises, Twas less for the sake of thy high-sounding phrases, Than to see the bright eyes of the dear one discover The thought that I was not unworthy to love her.
I have a passion for the name of "Mary," For once it was a magic sound to me, And still it half calls up the realms of fairy, Where I beheld what never was to be.
Such hath it been--shall be--beneath the sun The many still must labour for the one.
As soon seek roses in December, ice in June, Hope constancy in wind, or corn in chaff Believe a woman or an epitaph Or any other thing that’s false Before you trust in critics.
Oh, talk not to me of a name great in story; The days of our youth are the days of our glory; And the myrtle and ivy of sweet two-and-twenty Are worth all your laurels, though ever so plenty.
I doubt sometimes whether a quiet and unagitated life would have suited me - yet I sometimes long for it.
What want these outlaws conquerors should have but history's purchased page to call them great?
Eternal Spirit of the chainless Mind! Brightest in dungeons, Liberty! thou art, For there thy habitation is the heart-- The heart which love of thee alone can bind; And when thy sons to fetters are consign'd-- To fetters and damp vault's dayless gloom, Their country conquers with their martyrdom.
Christians have burnt each other, quite persuaded. That all the Apostles would have done as they did.
Scion of chiefs and monarchs, where art thou? Fond hope of many nations, art thou dead? Could not the grave forget thee, and lay low Some less majestic, less beloved head?
Age shakes Athena's tower, but spares gray Marathon.
Religion-freedom-vengeance-what you will, A word's enough to raise mankind to kill.
Prolonged endurance tames the bold.
What is the end of Fame? 'tis but to fill A certain portion of uncertain paper: Some liken it to climbing up a hill, Whose summit, like all hills, is lost in vapour: For this men write, speak, preach, and heroes kill, And bards burn what they call their "midnight taper," To have, when the original is dust, A name, a wretched picture, and worse bust.
When Bishop Berkeley said "there was no matter." And proved it--'t was no matter what he said.
My slumbers--if I slumber--are not sleep, But a continuance of enduring thought, Which then I can resist not: in my heart There is a vigil, and these eyes but close To look within; and yet I live, and bear The aspect and the form of breathing men.
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