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第 282 頁 - Religion, blushing, veils her sacred fires, And unawares Morality expires. Nor public flame, nor private dares to shine; Nor human spark is left, nor glimpse divine Lo, thy dread empire, Chaos ! is restored; Light dies before thy uncreating word : Thy hand, great Anarch, lets the curtain fall, And universal darkness buries all.
第 245 頁 - Hibernian shore. 70 And now had Fame's posterior trumpet blown, And all the nations summon'd to the throne : The young, the old, who feel her inward sway, One instinct seizes, and transports away. None need a guide, by sure attraction led, And strong impulsive gravity of head : None want a place, for all their centre found, Hung to the goddess, and cohered around.
第 244 頁 - But soon, ah soon, rebellion will commence, If music meanly borrows aid from sense : Strong in new arms, lo ! giant Handel stands, Like bold Briareus, with a hundred hands ; To stir, to rouse, to shake the soul he comes, And Jove's own thunders follow Mars's drums, Arrest him, empress ; or you sleep no more...
第 16 頁 - And sensible soft melancholy. "Has she no faults then, (Envy says) Sir?" Yes, she has one, I must aver; When all the world conspires to praise her, The woman's deaf, and does not hear.
第 229 頁 - Immortal Rich! how calm he sits at ease 'Mid snows of paper, and fierce hail of pease; And proud his Mistress' orders to perform, Rides in the whirlwind, and directs the storm.
第 192 頁 - To where Fleet-ditch with disemboguing streams Rolls the large tribute of dead dogs to Thames, The King of dykes ! than whom no sluice of mud With deeper sable blots the silver flood.
第 257 頁 - We only furnish what he cannot use, Or wed to what he must divorce, a muse: Full in the midst of Euclid dip at once, And petrify a genius to a dunce: Or set on metaphysic ground to prance, Show all his paces, not a step advance.
第 174 頁 - O'er bog or steep, through strait, rough, dense, or rare, With head, hands, wings, or feet, pursues his way, And swims, or sinks, or wades, or creeps, or flies.
第 48 頁 - tis true — this truth you lovers know — In vain my structures rise, my gardens grow, In vain fair Thames reflects the double scenes Of hanging mountains, and of sloping greens: Joy lives not here; to happier seats it flies, And only dwells where Wortley casts her eyes.