« VorigeDoorgaan »
Vicar of Wakefield — Continued.
And finds too late that men betray,
What art can wash her guilt away?
The only art her guilt to cover,
To give repentance to her lover,
Elegy on Mrs. Mary Blaize.
Ode to Independence.
Lord of the lion heart and eagle eye,
Nor heed the storm that howls along the sky.
The Friar of Orders Gray.
Thy sorrow is in vain;
Will ne'er make grow again.
Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more,
Men were deceivers ever;
To one thing constant never.
From Byrd's Psalmes, Sonets, etc., 1588.
Such perfect joy therein I find,
That God and Nature hath assigned.
Yet still my mind forbids to crave.
* My mind to me an empire is
Robert Southwell. 1560-1595.
Guy of Gisborne.
Millions a hero.
JAMES BEATTIE. 1735-1766. The Minstrel. Book i. St. 1. Ah! who can tell how hard it is to climb The steep where Fame's proud temple shines afar?
The Hermit. At the close of the day, when the hamlet is still, And mortals the sweets of forgetfulness prove, When nought but the torrrent is heard on the hill, And nought but the nightingale's song in the grove.
He thought as a sage, but he felt as a man.
Epigram. The Bucks had dined. How hard their lot who neither won nor lost.
CHURCHILL. THRALE. BOOTH. 209
The Hosciad. Line 322.
That love of life increased with years
The greatest love of life appears
No. Freedom has a thousand charms to show,
The Progress of Error. How much a dunce, that has been sent to roam, Excels a dunce, that has been kept at home.
The Yearly Distress.