The lark that shuns on lofty boughs to build, Her humble nest, lies silent in the field.
Tea does our fancy aid, Repress those vapours which the head invade And keeps that palace of the soul serene.
Poets lose half the praise they should have got, Could it be known what they discreetly blot.
Illustrious acts high raptures do infuse, And every conqueror creates a muse.
Vexed sailors cursed the rain, for which poor shepherds prayed in vain.
All things but one you can restore; the heart you get returns no more.
Stronger by weakness, wiser men become.
In other things the knowing artist may Judge better than the people; but a play, (Made for delight, and for no other use) If you approve it not, has no excuse.
Small is the worth Of beauty from the light retired: Bid her come forth, Suffer herself to be desired, And not blush so to be admired.
My joy, my grief, my hope, my love,
Did all within this circle move!
Lampoons, like squibs, may make a present blaze; but time and thunder pay respect to bays.
Circle are praised, not that abound, In largeness, but the exactly round.
And as pale sickness does invade, Your frailer part, the breaches made, In that fair lodging still more clear, Make the bright guest, your soul, appear.
And keeps the palace of the soul.
The rising sun complies with our weak sight, First gilds the clouds, then shows his globe of light At such a distance from our eyes, as though He knew what harm his hasty beams would do.
Since thou wouldst needs, bewitched with some ill charms, Be buried in those monumental arms: As we can wish, is, may that earth lie light Upon thy tender limbs, and so good night.
Happy is she that from the world retires, and carries with her what the world admires.
With wisdom fraught; not such as books, but such as practice taught.
Ingenious to their ruin, every age improves the art and instruments of rage.
Virtue's a stronger guard than brass.
But virtue too, as well as vice, is clad in flesh and blood.
Gods, that never change their state, vary oft their love and hate.
Seeming devotion does but gild a knave,
That's neither faithful, honest, just, nor brave;
But where religion does with virtue join,
It makes a hero like an angel shine.
When religion doth with virtue join, it makes a hero like an angel shine.
His kingdom come!" For this we pray in vain,
Unless He does in our affections reign.
How fond it were to wish for such a King,
And no obedience to his sceptre bring,
Whose yoke is easy, and His burthen light;
His service freedom, and His judgments right.
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