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And if I give thee honour due,
Where, perhaps, some beauty lies,
Corydon and Thyrsis met,
Towered cities please us then,
Then to the well-trod stage anon,
And ever, against eating cares,
These delights of thou canst give,
Sweet bird, that shun'st the noise of folly,
And if aught else great bards beside
and solemn tunes have sung,
due feet never fail
So sinks the day-star in the ocean bed,
Lycidas. Lines 168-171.
To-morrow to fresh woods and pastures new.
Ibid. Line 193.
For evil news rides post, while good news bates.
Samson Agonistes. Line 1538.
That dishonest victory
In vain doth valour bleed, While avarice and rapine share the land.
Peace hath her victories No less renowned than war.
A thousand fantasies
* Isocrates, the celebrated orator of Greece, is here alluded to. His patriotic feelings received so severe a shock on hearing the result of the battle of Cheronæa, that he died broken-hearted, or, as some authors say, of self-starvation.
+ A glossy bower!
Sir E. Bulwer Lytton's Lady of Lyons, Act ii. Scene 1.
Was I deceived, or did a sable cloud
Comus. Lines 221, 222.
Avenge, O Lord! thy slaughtered saints, whose bones
Lie scattered on the Alpine mountains cold;
Even them who kept thy truth so pure of old, When all our fathers worshipped stocks and stones Forget not.
Rivers, arise ! whether thou be the son
Poems on several occasions.
What needs my Shakspere for his honoured bones :
Thou in our wonder and astonishment
Ibid. On Shakspere.
* These noble lines, from the sonnet entitled “ On the late Massacre in Piedmont,” which was written in 1655, have obtained great and deserved celebrity. It is satisfactory to know, that the poet did not write in vain in thus calling attention to the sufferings of the persecuted Protestants of the Piedmontese mountains and valleys.
My banks they are furnish'd with bees,
Whose murmur invites one to sleep ;
A Pastoral. Part 2.
I have found out a gift for my
I have found where the wood-pigeons breed ; But let me that plunder forbear,
She will say ’t was a barbarous deed ; For he ne'er could be true, she averr’d,
Who could rob a poor bird of its young ; And I loved her the more when I heard Such tenderness fall from her tongue.
Ye shepherds! give ear to my lay,
And take no more heed of my sheep ; They have nothing to do but to stray,
I have nothing to do but to weep.