Even victors are by victories undone.
Like pilgrims to th' appointed place we tend; The World's an Inn, and Death the journey's end.
Jealousy's a proof of love, But 'tis a weak and unavailing medicine; It puts out the disease and makes it show, But has no power to cure.
Home is the sacred refuge of our life.
All habits gather by unseen degrees.
He wants worth who dares not praise a foe.
Inspire the Vocal Brass, Inspire; The World is past its Infant Age: Arms and Honour, Arms and Honour, Set the Martial Mind on Fire, And kindle Manly Rage.
For granting we have sinned, and that the offence Of man is made against Omnipotence, Some price that bears proportion must be paid, And infinite with infinite be weighed.
Men are but children of a larger growth.
Calms appear, when Storms are past; Love will have his Hour at last: Nature is my kindly Care; Mars destroys, and I repair; Take me, take me, while you may, Venus comes not ev'ry Day.
That, if the Gentiles, (whom no Law inspir'd,) By Nature did what was by Law requir'd; They, who the written Rule and never known, Were to themselves both Rule and Law alone: To Natures plain Indictment they shall plead; And, by their Conscience, be condemn'd or freed.
A fiery soul, which working out its way, Fretted the pygmy-body to decay: And o'er-informed the tenement of clay. A daring pilot in extremity; Pleased with the danger, when the waves went high He sought the storms...
Could swell the soul to rage, or kindle soft desire.
He was the man who of all modern, and perhaps ancient poets, had the largest and most comprehensive soul. . . . He was naturally learn'd; he needed not the spectacles of books to read Nature; he looked inwards, and found her there. . . . He is many times flat, insipid; his comic wit degenerating in to clenches, his serious swelling into bombast. But he is always great, when some occasion is presented to him.
Softly sweet, in Lydian measures, Soon he sooth'd his soul to pleasures. War, he sung, is toil and trouble; Honour but an empty bubble; Never ending, still beginning, Fighting still, and still destroying. If all the world be worth the winning, Think, oh think it worth enjoying: Lovely Thais sits beside thee, Take the good the gods provide thee.
She, though in full-blown flower of glorious beauty, Grows cold even in the summer of her age.
But wild Ambition loves to slide, not stand, And Fortune's ice prefers to Virtue's land.
Bankrupt of life, yet prodigal of ease.
Jealousy is the jaundice of the soul.
Learn to write well, or not to write at all.
For thee, sweet month; the groves green liveries wear. If not the first, the fairest of the year; For thee the Graces lead the dancing hours, And Nature's ready pencil paints the flowers. When thy short reign is past, the feverish sun The sultry tropic fears, and moves more slowly on.
Reason saw not, till Faith sprung the Light.
For danger levels man and brute And all are fellows in their need.
Resolved to ruin or to rule the state.
Woman's honor is nice as ermine; it will not bear a soil.
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