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Pagina 223 - Give me another horse! bind up my wounds! Have mercy, Jesu! Soft! I did but dream. O! coward conscience, how dost thou afflict me. The lights burn blue. It is now dead midnight. Cold fearful drops stand on my trembling flesh.
Pagina 109 - Hogarth, in whom the satirist never extinguished that love of beauty which belonged to him as a poet, so often and so gladly introduces as the central figure in a crowd of humorous deformities, which figure (such is the power of true genius) neither acts nor is meant to act as a contrast; but diffuses through all and over...
Pagina viii - I was pleased with the reply of a gentleman, who, being asked which book he esteemed most in his library, answered, — " Shakespeare : " being asked which he esteemed next best, replied,—
Pagina 103 - Achilles' image stood his spear Griped in an armed hand ; himself behind Was left unseen, save to the eye of mind : A hand, a foot, a face, a leg, a head, Stood for the whole to be imagined.
Pagina 63 - ' The stagnation rendered it necessary that I should do some timed thing to recover my lost time, and stop a gap in my income. This drew forth my print of 'The Times...
Pagina 244 - And as he reasoned of righteousness, temperance, and judgment to come, Felix trembled, and answered, Go thy way for this time; when I have a convenient season, I will call for thee.
Pagina 77 - I have shown that his views were more generous and extensive. Mirth coloured his pictures, but benevolence designed them. He smiled like Socrates, that men might not be offended at his lectures, and might learn to laugh at their own follies.
Pagina 151 - Farewell, great painter of mankind ! Who reach'd the noblest point of art, Whose pictured morals charm the mind, And through the eye correct the heart. If Genius fire thee, reader, stay, If nature touch thee, drop a tear, If neither move thee — turn away — For Hogarth's honour'd dust lies here.
Pagina 46 - Your People, Sir, are partial in the rest: Foes to all living worth except your own, And Advocates for folly dead and gone. Authors, like coins, grow dear as they grow old; It is the rust we value, not the gold. Chaucer's worst ribaldry is learn'd by rote, And beastly Skelton' Heads of houses quote: One likes no language but the Faery Queen; A Scot will fight for Christ's Kirk o...