Roach's Beauties of the Modern Poets of Great Britain: Carefully Selected and Arranged ...

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J. Roach, 1794
 

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Página 25 - Who but must laugh if such a man there be ? Who would not weep if Atticus were he?
Página 29 - As shallow streams run dimpling all the way. Whether in florid impotence he speaks, And, as the prompter breathes, the puppet squeaks; Or, at the ear of Eve, familiar toad, Half froth, half venom, spits himself abroad...
Página 51 - But hark ! a rap comes gently to the door ; Jenny, wha kens the meaning o' the same, Tells how a neebor lad cam o'er the moor To do some errands, and convoy her hame. The wily mother sees the conscious flame Sparkle in Jenny's e'e, and flush her cheek : Wi...
Página 18 - I said; Tie up the knocker, say I'm sick, I'm dead. The Dog-star rages! nay 'tis past a doubt, All Bedlam, or Parnassus, is let out: Fire in each eye, and papers in each hand, They rave, recite, and madden round the land.
Página 20 - Furies, death and rage!" If I approve, "Commend it to the stage.
Página 55 - An honest man's the noblest work of God;' And certes, in fair virtue's heavenly road, The cottage leaves the palace far behind; What is a lordling's pomp? a cumbrous load, Disguising oft the wretch of human kind, Studied in arts of hell, in wickedness refin'd!
Página 9 - As when a shepherd of the Hebrid Isles*, Placed far amid the melancholy main, (Whether it be lone fancy him beguiles ; Or that aerial beings sometimes deign To stand embodied, to our senses plain) Sees on the naked hill, or valley low, The whilst in ocean Phoebus dips his wain, A vast assembly moving to and fro: Then all at once in air dissolves the wondrous show.
Página 32 - Bestia's from the throne. Born to no pride, inheriting no strife, Nor marrying discord in a noble wife, Stranger to civil and religious rage, The good man walk'd innoxious through his age. No courts he saw, no suits would ever try, Nor dar'd an oath, nor hazarded a lie.
Página 22 - And when I die, be sure you let me know Great Homer died three thousand years ago. Why did I write ? what sin to me unknown Dipt me in ink, my parents', or my own?

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