Select Proverbs, Italian, Spanish, French, English, Scotish, British, &c. Chiefly Moral: The Foreign Languages Done Into English

J.H., 1707 - 126 Seiten

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Seite 68 - I'm going — I could serve you, Sir?" " I give and I devise" (old Euclio said, And sigh'd) "my lands and tenements to Ned." Your money, Sir? "My money, Sir! what, all? Why,— if I must— (then wept) I give it Paul.
Seite 3 - 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.
Seite 7 - While malice, Pope, denies thy page Its own celestial fire, While critics, and while bards in rage, Admiring, won't admire ; '' While wayward pens thy worth assail, And envious tongues decry ; These times, though many a friend bewail, These times bewail not I.
Seite 111 - Flora vouchsaf'd the growing work to view: Finding the painter's science at a stand, The goddess snatch'd the pencil from his hand; And finishing the piece, she smiling said, Behold one work of mine, that ne'er shall fade.
Seite 136 - See! see, she wakes — Sabina wakes! And now the sun begins to rise: Less glorious is the morn, that breaks From his bright beams, than her fair eyes. With light united day they give; But different fates ere night fulfil: How many by his warmth will live! How many will her coldness kill!
Seite 27 - As after noon, one summer's day, Venus stood bathing in a river, Cupid a-shooting went that way, New strung his bow, new fill'd his quiver. With skill he chose his sharpest dart, With all his might his bow he drew ; Swift to his beauteous parent's heart The too well-guided arrow flew. I faint ! I die ! the goddess cried ; 0 cruel, couldst thou find none other, To wreck thy spleen on ? Parricide ! Like Nero, thou hast slain thy mother.
Seite 68 - Tis from high life high characters are drawn : A saint in crape is twice a saint in lawn ; A judge is just, a chancellor juster still ; A gownman learn'd ; a bishop what you will ; Wise if a minister ; but if a king, More wise, more learn'd, more just, more every thing.
Seite 107 - Mov'd in the orb, pleas'd with the chimes, The foolish creature thinks he climbs: But here or there, turn wood or wire, He never gets two inches higher. So fares it with those merry blades, That frisk it under Pindus' shades. In noble songs, and lofty odes, They tread on stars, and talk with gods; Still dancing in an airy round, Still pleas'd with their own verses' sound ; Brought back, how fast soe'er they go, Always aspiring, always low.
Seite 148 - Mistaken fair, lay Sherlock by, His doctrine is deceiving ; For whilst he teaches us to die, He cheats us of our living.
Seite 111 - If the best man's faults were written in his forehead, it would make him pull his hat over his eyes.

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