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.
Vexed sailors cursed the rain, for which poor shepherds prayed in vain.
Illustrious acts high raptures do infuse, And every conqueror creates a muse.
Poets lose half the praise they should have got, Could it be known what they discreetly blot.
All things but one you can restore; the heart you get returns no more.
Stronger by weakness, wiser men become.
To love is to believe, to hope, to know;
'Tis an essay, a taste of Heaven below!
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.
If its length be not considered a merit, it hath no other.
A narrow compass! and yet there Dwelt all that 's good, and all that 's fair; Give me but what this riband bound, Take all the rest the sun goes round.
Others may use the ocean as their road; Only the English make it their abode.
Under the tropic is our language spoke, And part of Flanders hath receiv'd our yoke.
And keeps the palace of the soul.
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.
Circle are praised, not that abound, In largeness, but the exactly round.
Lampoons, like squibs, may make a present blaze; but time and thunder pay respect to bays.
Fade, flowers, fade! Nature will have it so; 'tis but what we in our autumn do.
Happy the innocent whose equal thoughts are free from anguish as they are from faults.
What use of oaths, of promise, or of test, where men regard no God but interest?
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.
When religion doth with virtue join, it makes a hero like an angel shine.
For all we know Of what the blessed do above Is, that they sing, and that they love. While I listen to thy Voice.
Thrice happy is that humble pair, Beneath the level of all care! Over whose heads those arrows fly, Of sad distrust and jealousy.
How small a part of time they share, That are so wondrous sweet and fair!
Follow AzQuotes on Facebook, Twitter and Google+. Every day we present the best quotes! Improve yourself, find your inspiration, share with friends