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Line 816.

His rod reversed,

And backward mutters of dissevering power.

Line 1012.

But now my task is smoothly done,

I can fly, or I can run.


Line 10.

He knew

Himself to sing, and build the lofty rhyme.

Line 14.

Without the meed of some melodious tear.

Line 70.

Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise (That last infirmity of noble mind)

To scorn delights and live laborious days;
But the fair guerdon when we hope to find,
And think to burst out into sudden blaze,

Comes the blind Fury with the abhorred shears,
And slits the thin-spun life.

Line 101.

Built in the eclipse and rigged with curses dark.

Line 109.

The pilot of the Galilean lake.


Line 168.

So sinks the day-star in the ocean bed,
And yet anon repairs his drooping head,
And tricks his beams, and with new-spangled ore
Flames in the forehead of the morning sky.

Line 193.

To-morrow to fresh woods and pastures new.


Line 8.

The gay motes that people the sun-beams.

Line 39.

And looks commercing with the skies,
Thy rapt soul sitting in thine eyes.

Line 61.

Sweet bird, that shunn'st the noise of folly,
Most musical, most melancholy!

Line 105.

Or bid the soul of Orpheus sing

Such notes, as, warbled to the string,
Drew iron tears down Pluto's cheek.

Line 120.

Where more is meant than meets the ear.

Line 159.

And storied windows richly dight,

Casting a dim, religious light.


Line 25.

Haste thee, Nymph, and bring with thee
Jest, and youthful Jollity,

Quips, and cranks, and wanton wiles,
Nods, and becks, and wreathed smiles.

Line 31.

Sport that wrinkled Care derides,
And Laughter holding both his sides.
Come, and trip it as you go,

On the light, fantastic toe.

Line 67.

And every shepherd tells his tale
Under the hawthorn in the dale.

Line 79.

Where perhaps some beauty lies,
The Cynosure of neighboring eyes.

Line 85.

Herbs, and other country messes,

Which the neat-handed Phyllis dresses.

Line 117.

Towered cities please us then,

And the busy hum of men.

Line 121.

Ladies, whose bright eyes

Rain influence.


Line 132.

If Jonson's learned sock be on,

Or sweetest Shakespeare, Fancy's child,
Warble his native wood-notes wild.

Line 136.

Lap me in soft Lydian airs,

Married to immortal verse,

Such as the meeting soul may pierce
In notes, with many a winding bout
Of linked sweetness long drawn out.

Line 144.

The hidden soul of harmony.



As ever in my great task-master's eye.

That old man eloquent.



That would have made Quintilian stare and gasp.


Peace hath her victories

No less renowned than war.


They also serve who only stand and wait.



Yet I argue not

Against Heaven's hand or will, nor bate a jot
Of heart or hope; but still bear up and steer
Right onward.

Of which all Europe rings from side to side.


But O, as to embrace me she inclined,

I waked; she fled; and day brought back my night.

The Reason of Church Government urged against Prelaty. Book 2.

A poet soaring in the high reason of his fancy, with his garland and singing robes about him.

By labor and intent study (which I take to be my portion in this life) joined with the strong propensity of nature, I might perhaps leave something so written to aftertimes, as they should not willingly let it die.

Beholding the bright countenance of truth in the quiet and still air of delightful studies.

Apology for Smectymnuss.

He who would not be frustrate of his hope to write well hereafter in laudable things, ought himself to be a true poem.

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