The British Poets: Including Translations ...

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Page 80 - Let wits, like spiders, from the tortured brain Fine-draw the critic-web with curious pain ; The gods, — a kindness I with thanks must pay, — Have form'd me of a coarser kind of clay ; Nor stung with envy, nor with spleen diseased, A poor dull creature, still with nature pleased ; Hence to thy praises, Garrick, I agree, And, pleased with nature, must be pleased with thee.
Page 118 - When fiction rises pleasing to the eye, Men will believe, because they love the lie ; But Truth herself, if clouded with a frown, Must have some solemn proof to pass her down.
Page 74 - In person taller than the common size, Behold where Barry draws admiring eyes ! When lab'ring passions, in his bosom pent, Convulsive rage, and struggling heave for vent, Spectators, with imagin'd terrors warm, Anxious expect the bursting of the storm ; But, all unfit in such a pile to dwell, His voice comes forth like Echo from her cell, To swell the tempest needful aid denies, And all adown the stage in feeble murmurs dies.
Page 45 - Known but to few, or only known by name, Plain Common Sense, appear'd, by Nature there Appointed, with Plain Truth, to guard the chair ; The pageant saw, and blasted with her frown To Its first state of nothing melted down.
Page 245 - Slugs, pinch'd with hunger, smear'd the slimy wall ; The cave around with hissing serpents rung ; On the damp roof unhealthy vapour hung ; . And Famine, by her children always known, As proud as poor, here fix'd her native throne.
Page 244 - ... passage, flew, No bee was known to hum, no dove to coo. No streams as amber smooth, as amber clear, Were seen to glide, or heard to warble here. Rebellion's spring, which' through the country ran, Furnish'd, with bitter draughts, the steady clan.
Page 136 - Fond man, believe it not; experience tells 'Tis not thy virtue, but thy pride rebels. Think, (and for once lay by thy lawless pen) Think, and confess thyself like other men; Think but one hour, and, to thy conscience led By Reason's hand, bow down and hang thy head: Think on thy private life...
Page 93 - Perfect then only deem'd when they dispense A happy, tuneful vacancy of sense. Italian fathers thus, with barbarous rage, Fit helpless infants for the squeaking stage : Deaf to the calls of pity, Nature wound, And mangle vigour for the sake of sound. Henceforth farewell...
Page 55 - Strange to relate, but wonderfully true, That even shadows have their shadows too ! With not a single comic power endued, The first a mere mere mimic's mimic stood...
Page 230 - His bills sent in ; too great to pay Too proud to speak to, if he meets The honest tradesman whom he cheats ; «oo Too infamous to have a friend ; Too bad for bad men to commend...

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