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Vicar of Wakefield - Continued.
And finds too late that men betray,
What art can wash her guilt away?
The only art her guilt to cover,
To hide her shame from every eye,
And wring his bosom, is — to die.
Elegy on Mrs. Mary Blaize.
When she has walked before.
Ode to Independence.
Lord of the lion heart and eagle eye,
Nor heed the storm that howls along the sky.
Reliques of English Poetry. The Baffled Knight.
He that wold not when he might,
The Friar of Orders Gray.
Thy sorrow is in vain ;
Will ne'er make grow again.
Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more,
Men were deceivers ever ;
To one thing constant never.
From Byrd's Psalmes, Sonets, etc., 1588.
Such perfect joy therein I find,
That God and Nature hath assigned.
Yet still my mind forbids to crave.
* My mind to me an empire is
ROBERT SOUTHWELL. 1560–1595.
Guy of Gisborne.
Might have seen a full fayre sight.
Death, a Poem. Line 154.
One murder makes a villain,
The Minstrel. Book i. St. 1. Ah! who can tell how hard it is to climb The steep where Fame's proud temple shines afar?
At the close of the day, when the hamlet is still, And mortals the sweets of forgetfulness prove, When nought but the torrrent is heard on the hill, And nought but the nightingale's song in the grove.
He thought as a sage, but he felt as a man.
Epigram. The Bucks had dined. How hard their lot who neither won nor lost.
CHURCHILL. — THRALE.
The Rosciad. Line 322.
Line 861. But spite of all the criticizing elves, Those who would make us feel — must feel themselves.
That love of life increased with years
The greatest love of life appears.
No. Freedom has a thousand charms to show, That slaves, howe'er contented, never know.
The Progress of Error. How much a dunce, that has been sent to roam, Excels a dunce, that has been kept at home.
Truth. Just knows and knows no more, her Bible true, A truth the brilliant Frenchman never knew.
The Yearly Distress.
May kill a sound divine.
Book i. The Sofa.