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admiration appears beautiful become better body Book called carried coach comes common death delight dreams eyes face fear feel gentle give graceful green hand happy head heart horses human idea imagination Italy keep kind knowledge lady least Leigh Hunt less light lived look Lord manner matter means mind morning nature never night observed once original pain pass perhaps person piece play pleasant pleasure poet poor present reader reason respect round seems seen sense Shakspeare side sleep sometimes sort speak spirit stick story Street suffering sweet tell thee thing thou thought took touch turn walk whole wife wish writing young
Página 63 - Are those her ribs through which the Sun Did peer, as through a grate? And is that Woman all her crew? Is that a DEATH? and are there two? Is DEATH that woman's mate?
Página 277 - Now the bright morning star, day's harbinger, Comes dancing from the east, and leads with her The flowery May, who from her green lap throws The yellow cowslip, and the pale primrose. Hail bounteous May that dost inspire Mirth and youth, and warm desire; Woods and groves are of thy dressing, Hill and dale doth boast thy blessing. Thus we salute thee with our early song, And welcome thee, and wish thee long.
Página xxi - Soul of the age! The applause, delight, the wonder of our stage! My Shakespeare, rise! I will not lodge thee by Chaucer, or Spenser, or bid Beaumont lie A little further, to make thee a room: Thou art a monument without a tomb, And art alive still while thy book doth live And we have wits to read and praise to give.
Página xxi - I behold like a Spanish great galleon, and an English man-of-war; Master Coleridge, like the former, was built far higher in learning, solid, but slow in his performances. CVL, with the English man-of-war, lesser in bulk, but lighter in sailing, could turn with all tides, tack about, and take advantage of all winds, by the quickness of his wit and invention.
Página 235 - Biron they call him; but a merrier man, Within the limit of becoming mirth, I never spent an hour's talk withal : His eye begets occasion for his wit; For every object that the one doth catch, The other turns to a mirth-moving jest ; Which his fair tongue (conceit's expositor,) Delivers in such apt and gracious words, That aged ears play truant at his tales, And younger hearings are quite ravished ; So sweet and voluble is his discourse.
Página 289 - Saturn laugh'd and leap'd with him: Yet nor the lays of birds, nor the sweet smell Of different flowers in odour and in hue, Could make me any summer's story tell, Or from their proud lap pluck them where they grew : Nor did I wonder at the lily's white, Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose ; They were but sweet, but figures of delight, Drawn after you ; you pattern of all those. Yet seem'd it winter still, and, you away, As with your shadow I with these did play : XCIX.
Página xxi - Many were the wit-combats betwixt him and Ben Jonson, which two I behold like a Spanish great galleon, and an English man-of-war ; Master Jonson (like the former) was built far higher in learning ; solid, but slow in his performances. Shakespeare...
Página 33 - In consecrated earth, And on the holy hearth, The Lars and Lemures moan with midnight plaint ; In urns and altars round A drear and dying sound Affrights the Flamens at their service quaint ; And the chill marble seems to sweat, While each peculiar Power foregoes his wonted seat.
Página 303 - O'ercome with sufferings strange and wild, I wept as I had been a child ; And having thus by tears subdued My anguish to a milder mood, Such punishments, I said, were due To natures deepliest stained with sin : For aye entempesting anew The unfathomable hell within The horror of their deeds to view, To know and loathe, yet wish and do ! Such griefs with such men well agree, But wherefore, wherefore fall on me ? To be beloved is all I need, And whom I love, I love indeed.
Página 44 - I thought of Chatterton, the marvellous Boy, The sleepless Soul that perished in his pride; Of Him who walked in glory and in joy Following his plough, along the mountain-side: By our own spirits are we deified: We Poets in our youth begin in gladness; But thereof come in the end despondency and madness.