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appear Arcite arms bear beauty began better blood born called cause Chaucer court Cymon death desire Dryden English EPISTLE equal eyes face fair fame fate father fear fight fire force formed fortune gave give given grace ground hand happy head heart heaven honour hope kind king knight known lady learned least leave less light lines live look lord lost means mind muse nature never noble once original pain Palamon pass person play pleased pleasure poem poet poetry praise present prince queen race raised rest seems seen sense side sight soon soul stood sweet tale tears thee things thou thought took translation true turned verses virtue wife young youth
Page 186 - Twas at the royal feast for Persia won By Philip's warlike son : Aloft in awful state The godlike hero sate On his imperial throne...
Page 173 - To all the blessed above ; So when the last and dreadful hour This crumbling pageant shall devour, The trumpet shall be heard on high, The dead shall live, the living die, And Music shall untune the sky.
Page 162 - THREE Poets, in three distant ages born, Greece, Italy, and England did adorn. The first in loftiness of thought surpassed; The next in majesty •, In both the last. The force of Nature could no further go ; To make a third, she joined the former two.
Page 77 - Better to hunt in fields for health unbought Than fee the doctor for a nauseous draught. The wise for cure on exercise depend : God never made His work for man to mend.
Page 210 - Spenser more than once insinuates that the soul of Chaucer was transfused into his body, and that he was begotten by him two hundred years after his decease.
Page 187 - In flower of youth and beauty's pride. Happy, happy, happy pair! None but the brave, None but the brave, None but the brave deserves the fair...
Page 172 - What passion cannot Music raise and quell ? When Jubal struck the chorded shell His listening brethren stood around. And, wondering, on their faces fell To worship that celestial sound. Less than a God they thought there could not dwell Within the hollow of that shell That spoke so sweetly and so wel1.
Page 190 - Now strike the golden lyre again! A louder yet, and yet a louder strain, Break his bands of sleep asunder, And rouse him, like a rattling peal of thunder. Hark, hark! the horrid sound Has raised up his head! As awaked from the dead, And amazed, he stares around. Revenge! revenge!