I stood in Venice, on the Bridge of Sighs, A palace and a prison on each hand.
And wrinkles, the damned democrats, won't flatter.
May Moorland weavers boast Pindaric skill, And tailors' lays be longer than their bill! While punctual beaux reward the grateful notes, And pay for poems--when they pay for coats.
[Armenian] is a rich language, however, and would amply repay any one the trouble of learning it.
The sight of blood to crowds begets the thirst of more, As the first wine-cup leads to the long revel.
I hate all pain, Given or received; we have enough within us The meanest vassal as the loftiest monarch, Not to add to each other's natural burden Of mortal misery.
Egypt! from whose all dateless tombs arose Forgotten Pharaohs from their long repose, And shook within their pyramids to hear A new Cambyses thundering in their ear; While the dark shades of forty ages stood Like startled giants by Nile's famous flood.
For what were all these country patriots born? To hunt, and vote, and raise the price of corn?
By Heaven! it is a splendid sight to see For one who hath no friend, no brother there.
The Coach does not play in the game, but the Coach helps the players identify areas to improve their game.
What makes a regiment of soldiers a more noble object of view than the same mass of mob? Their arms, their dresses, their banners, and the art and artificial symmetry of their position and movements.
A legal broom's a moral chimney-sweeper, And that's the reason he himself's so dirty
Such is your cold coquette, who can't say "No," And won't say "Yes," and keeps you on and off-ing On a lee-shore, till it begins to blow, Then sees your heart wreck'd, with an inward scoffing.
Love rules the camp, the court, the grove - for love is Heaven, and Heaven is love.
The thorns which I have reap'd are of the tree I planted; they have torn me, and I bleed. I should have known what fruit would spring from such a seed.
But at sixteen the conscience rarely gnaws So much, as when we call our old debts in At sixty years, and draw the accounts of evil, And find a deuced balance with the devil.
My hair is grey, but not with years, Nor grew it white In a single night, As men's have grown from sudden fears.
Well, well, the world must turn upon its axis, And all mankind turn with it, heads or tails, And live and die, make love and pay our taxes, And as the veering winds shift, shift our sails.
The mellow autumn came, and with it came The promised party, to enjoy its sweets. The corn is cut, the manor full of game; The pointer ranges, and the sportsman beats In russet jacket;--lynx-like is his aim; Full grows his bag, and wonderful his feats. An, nutbrown partridges! An, brilliant pheasants! And ah, ye poachers!--'Tis no sport for peasants.
Yet smelt roast meat, beheld a huge fire shine, And cooks in motion with their clean arms bared.
There is no passion, more spectral or fantastical than hate, not even its opposite, love, so peoples air, with phantoms, as this madness of the heart.
Marriage, from love, like vinegar from wine-- A sad, sour sober beverage--by time Is sharpened from its high celestial flavor Down to a very homely household savor.
None are so desolate but something dear, Dearer than self, possesses or possess'd A thought, and claims the homage of a tear.
The French courage proceeds from vanity
Once more upon the waters! yet once more! And the waves bound beneath me as a steed That knows his rider.
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