The English Graduate Record, Հատորներ 1-31905 |
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Էջ 42 - This was the noblest Roman of them all : All the conspirators, save only he, Did that they did in envy of great Caesar ; He only, in a general honest thought And common good to all, made one of them. His life was gentle; and the elements So mixed in him, that Nature might stand up And say to all the world, " This was a man !
Էջ 48 - Of thinking too precisely on the event, A thought which, quarter'd, hath but one part wisdom And ever three parts coward, I do not know Why yet I live to say, This thing's to do ; Sith I have cause and will and strength and means To do't.
Էջ 76 - Come, come away, fraile, feeble, fleshly wight, Ne let vaine words bewitch thy manly hart, Ne divelish thoughts dismay thy constant spright. In heavenly mercies hast thou not a part? Why shouldst thou then despeire, that chosen art?
Էջ 78 - Ne let the man ascribe it to his skill, That thorough grace hath gained victory. If any strength we have, it is to ill, But all the good is Gods, both power and eke will.
Էջ 74 - That wondrous paterne, wheresoere it bee, Whether in earth layd up in secret store, Or else in heaven, that no man may it see With sinfull eyes, for feare it to deflore, Is perfect Beautie, which all men adore; Whose face and feature doth so much excell All mortal sence, that none the same may tell.
Էջ 47 - Why, let the stricken deer go weep, The hart ungalled play; For some must watch, while some must sleep: So runs the world away.
Էջ 74 - Is perfect Beautie, which all men adore ; Whose face and feature doth so much excell All mortall sence, that none the same may tell. Thereof as every earthly thing partakes Or more or lesse, by influence divine, So it more faire accordingly it makes, And the grosse matter of this earthly myne Which clotheth it thereafter doth refyne, Doing away the drosse which dims the light Of that faire beame which therein is empight.
Էջ 68 - For Bacchus fruite is frend to Phoebus wise ; And, when with Wine the braine begins to sweate, The nombers flowe as fast as spring doth ryse.
Էջ 68 - Thou kenst not, Percie, howe the ryme should rage, O ! if my temples were distaind with wine, And girt in girlonds of wild Yvie twine, peeced, Imperfect. How I could reare the Muse on stately stage, And teache her tread aloft in buskin fine, With queint Bellona in her equipage 1 But ah!
Էջ 37 - Here's much to do with hate, but more with love. Why then, O brawling love! O loving hate! O anything, of nothing first create! O heavy lightness! serious vanity! Misshapen chaos of well-seeming forms! Feather of lead, bright smoke, cold fire, sick health! Still-waking sleep, that is not what it is This love feel I, that feel no love in this.