Prolonged endurance tames the bold.
Shakespeare's name, you may depend on it, stands absurdly too high and will go down.
Christians have burnt each other, quite persuaded. That all the Apostles would have done as they did.
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.
What want these outlaws conquerors should have but history's purchased page to call them great?
Lord of himself; that heritage of woe!
Age shakes Athena's tower, but spares gray Marathon.
Pure friendship's well-feigned blush.
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.
Know ye not who would be free themselves must strike the blow? by their right arms the conquest must be wrought?
It is very iniquitous to make me pay my debts - you have no idea of the pain it gives one.
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.
The simple Wordsworth . . . / Who, both by precept and example, shows / That prose is verse, and verse is merely prose.
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.
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.
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.
Oh, Christ! it is a goodly sight to see What Heaven hath done for this delicious land!
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.
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.
I doubt sometimes whether a quiet and unagitated life would have suited me - yet I sometimes long for it.
Oh that the desert were my dwelling-place, With one fair spirit for my minister
Scion of chiefs and monarchs, where art thou? Fond hope of many nations, art thou dead? Could not the grave forget thee, and lay low Some less majestic, less beloved head?
Religion-freedom-vengeance-what you will, A word's enough to raise mankind to kill.
My slumbers--if I slumber--are not sleep, But a continuance of enduring thought, Which then I can resist not: in my heart There is a vigil, and these eyes but close To look within; and yet I live, and bear The aspect and the form of breathing men.
When Bishop Berkeley said "there was no matter." And proved it--'t was no matter what he said.
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