The County Magazine, 第 1 卷

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B.C. Collins, 1788
 

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第 360 頁 - Ye winds, that have made me your sport, Convey to this desolate shore Some cordial endearing report Of a land I shall visit no more. My friends, do they now and then send A wish or a thought after me ? O tell me I yet have a friend, Though a friend I am never to see.
第 105 頁 - Forsake not an old friend, for the new is not comparable to him : a new friend is as new wine ; when it is old thou shalt drink it with pleasure.
第 46 頁 - We entangle ourselves in business, immerge ourselves in luxury, and rove through the labyrinths of inconstancy, till the darkness of old age begins to invade us, and disease and anxiety obstruct our way. We then look back upon our lives with horror, with sorrow, with repentance ; and wish, but too often vainly wish, that we had not forsaken the ways of virtue.
第 35 頁 - Theirs is yon House that holds the parish poor, Whose walls of mud scarce bear the broken door ; There, where the putrid vapours, flagging, play, And the dull wheel hums doleful through the day; — • There children dwell who know no parents...
第 246 頁 - Just in the dubious point, where with the pool Is mix'd the trembling stream, or where it boils Around the stone, or from the hollow'd bank Reverted plays in undulating flow, There throw, nice-judging, the delusive fly; And as you lead it round in artful curve, With eye attentive mark the springing game.
第 46 頁 - by what chance thou hast been brought hither ; I have been now twenty years an inhabitant of the wilderness, in which I never saw a man before.
第 46 頁 - He did not, however, forget whither he was travelling, but found a narrow way bordered with flowers...
第 48 頁 - ... the lion in his rage I meet ! Oft in the dust I view his printed feet ; And fearful oft, when Day's declining light Yields her pale empire to the mourner Night, By hunger...
第 17 頁 - To fill the ambition of a private man, That Chatham's language was his mother tongue, And Wolfe's great name compatriot with his own.
第 247 頁 - Thee dispos'd into congenial soils, Stands each attractive plant, and sucks, and swells The juicy tide; a twining mass of tubes. At Thy command the vernal sun awakes The torpid sap, detruded to the root By wintry winds; that now in fluent dance, And lively fermentation, mounting, spreads All this innumerous-coloured scene of things.

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