The Works of the English Poets: Waller

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H. Hughs, 1779
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Página 190 - For then we know how vain it was to boast Of fleeting things, so certain to be lost. Clouds of affection from our younger eyes Conceal that emptiness which age descries. The soul's dark cottage, battered and decayed, Lets in new light through chinks that Time has made: Stronger by weakness, wiser men become As they draw near to their eternal home. Leaving the old, both worlds at once they view That stand upon the threshold of the new.
Página 115 - The ancient way of conquering abroad. Ungrateful, then ! if we no tears allow To him, that gave us peace and empire too. Princes that fear'd him grieve...
Página 115 - Of her own growth hath all that nature craves, And all that's rare, as tribute from the waves. As ./Egypt does not on the clouds rely, But to...
Página 71 - ON A GIRDLE. That which her slender waist confined, Shall now my joyful temples bind ; No monarch but would give his crown His arms might do what this has done. It was my heaven's extremest sphere, The pale which held that lovely deer, My joy, my grief, my hope, my love, Did all within this circle move. A narrow compass, and yet there Dwelt all that's good and all that's fair; Give me but what this ribband bound, Take all the rest the sun goes round.
Página 115 - Gold, though the heaviest metal, hither swims. Ours is the harvest where the Indians mow, We plough the deep, and reap what others sow.
Página 115 - To such a tempest as now threatens all, Did not your mighty arm prevent the fall.
Página 12 - I can assure the reader what would have been, had this edition been delayed. The following poems were got abroad, and in a great many hands ; it were vain to expect that, among so many admirers of Mr.
Página 94 - Such truth in love as the' antique world did know, In such a style as courts may boast of now; Which no bold tales of gods or monsters swell, But human passions, such as with us dwell. Man is thy theme, his virtue or his rage Drawn to the life in each elaborate page.
Página 7 - Their poetry then was made up almost entirely of monosyllables ; which, when they come together in any cluster, are certainly the most harsh, untuneable things in the world.
Página 115 - We must resign ! heaven his great soul does claim In storms as loud as his immortal fame ; His dying groans, his last breath shakes our isle, And trees uncut fall for his funeral pile : About his palace their broad roots are tost Into the air ; so Romulus was lost ! New Rome in such a tempest missed her king. And from obeying fell to worshipping.

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