Young. Churchill. Lloyd. Falconer. Thomson

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Samuel Johnson
A. Miller, 1800 - English poetry
 

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Page 435 - Bear me, Pomona ! to thy citron groves ; To where the lemon and the piercing lime, With the deep orange, glowing through the green, Their lighter glories blend.
Page 327 - Its tenure sure ; its income is divine. High-built abundance, heap on heap ! for what ? To breed new wants, and beggar us the more ; Then, make a richer scramble for the throng...
Page 154 - And, by th' approaching summer season, Draws a few hundreds from the stocks, And purchases his country box. Some three or four miles out of town, (An hour's ride will bring you down,) He fixes on his choice abode, Not half a furlong from the road : And so convenient does it lay, The...
Page 429 - Delightful task! to rear the tender thought, To teach the young idea how to shoot...
Page 501 - While o'er th' enfeebling lute his hand he flung, And to the trembling chords these tempting verses sung: 'Behold, ye pilgrims of this earth, behold! See all but man with unearned pleasure gay ! See her bright robes the butterfly unfold, Broke from her wintry tomb in prime of May. What youthful bride can equal her array? Who can with her for easy pleasure vie? From mead to mead with gentle wing to stray, From flower to flower on balmy gales to fly, Is all she has to do beneath the radiant sky.
Page 460 - Ah little think they, while they dance along, How many feel, this very moment, death And all the sad variety of pain.
Page 306 - Death's tremendous blow. The knell, the shroud, the mattock, and the grave; The deep damp vault, the darkness, and the worm ; These are the bugbears of a winter's eve, The terrors of the living, not the dead. Imagination's fool, and Error's wretch, Man makes a death which Nature never made : Then on the point of his own fancy falls, And feels a thousand deaths in fearing one.
Page 298 - Tis greatly wise to talk with our past hours ; And ask them, what report they bore to heaven : And how they might have borne more welcome news.
Page 150 - A single look more marks th' internal woe, Than all the windings of the lengthen'd Oh. Up to the Face the quick sensation flies, And darts its meaning from the speaking Eyes ; Love, transport, madness, anger, scorn, despair, And all the passions, all the soul is there. In vain Ophelia gives her flowrets round, And with her...
Page 506 - Full oft by holy feet our ground was trod, Of clerks good plenty here you mote espy. A little, round, fat, oily man of God, Was one I chiefly mark'd among the fry : He had a roguish twinkle in his eye, And shone all glittering with ungodly dew, If a tight damsel chaunc'd to trippen by ; Which when observ'd, he shrunk into his mew, And straight would recollect his piety anew.

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