History - the devil's scripture
The devil hath not, in all his quiver's choice, An arrow for the heart like a sweet voice.
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.
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.
Age shakes Athena's tower, but spares gray Marathon.
The simple Wordsworth . . . / Who, both by precept and example, shows / That prose is verse, and verse is merely prose.
I can't but say it is an awkward sight To see one's native land receding through The growing waters; it unmans one quite, Especially when life is rather new.
Oh, Christ! it is a goodly sight to see What Heaven hath done for this delicious land!
Prolonged endurance tames the bold.
Pure friendship's well-feigned blush.
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.
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.
Lord of himself; that heritage of woe!
Oh that the desert were my dwelling-place, With one fair spirit for my minister
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.
It is very iniquitous to make me pay my debts - you have no idea of the pain it gives one.
I doubt sometimes whether a quiet and unagitated life would have suited me - yet I sometimes long for it.
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.
What want these outlaws conquerors should have but history's purchased page to call them great?
Such hath it been--shall be--beneath the sun The many still must labour for the one.
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.
Shakespeare's name, you may depend on it, stands absurdly too high and will go down.
Egeria! sweet creation of some heart Which found no mortal resting-place so fair As thine ideal breast.
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.
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