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actor appear Bard bear bring BROWN Churchill common critic dear death delight dull eaſe ev'ry eyes face fair fame feel firſt flow fools forms genius give grace grave half hand happy hate head hear heart himſelf joys juſt King lady letters live Lloyd look Lord mark mean meet merit mind moſt Muſe muſt nature ne'er never night o'er obſervation once perhaps plain pleaſe poet pow'r praiſe Pray preſent proper rage rhyme riſe road round rules ſame ſay ſcene SCOT ſee ſenſe ſhall ſhe ſhew ſkill ſome ſpirit ſtage ſtand ſtate ſtill ſtrong ſuch ſure talk taſte tell thee theſe things thoſe Thou thought thro true truth turn uſe verſe voice whoſe wiſh write youth
105 페이지 - A barren genius at the best. — But Imitation's all the mode — Yet where one hits, ten miss the road. The mimic bard with pleasure sees Mat.
46 페이지 - Apollo there, with aim so clever, Stretches his leaden bow for ever; And there, without the pow'r to fly, Stands fix'da tip-toe Mercury. The Villa thus completely grac'd...
xiv 페이지 - Nor tinged with envy, wish that genius mine : To Churchill's muse can bow with decent awe, Admire his mode, nor make that mode my law ; Both may perhaps have various powers to please, Be his the strength of numbers, mine the ease.
100 페이지 - And poets dread their mock dominion. So have you feen with dire affright, The petty monarch of the night, Seated aloft in elbow chair, Command the...
78 페이지 - tis a word ideal, That bears about it nothing real : For excellence was never hit In the first essays of man's wit.
19 페이지 - Tho' all his features were not grim'd with fnufF. Why fhou'd Pol Peach urn fhine in Dtin cloaths ? Why ev'ry devil dance in fcarlet hofe ? But in ltagc-cuftoms what offends me moft Is the flip-door, and flowly-rifing ghoft. Tell me, nor count the queftion too fevere, Why need the difmal powder'd forms appear ? When chilling horrors fhake th...
43 페이지 - With all the fuss of moving over : Lo ! a new heap of whims are bred. And wanton in my lady's head. ' Well ! to be sure, it must be own'd.
58 페이지 - His fingers' ends all pinch'd to death, He blew upon them with his breath. Friend, quoth the Satyr, what intends That blowing on thy fingers' ends ? " It is to warm them thus I blow, " For they are froze as cold as snow ; " And so inclement has it been, " I'm like a cake of ice within.