The British Essayists: Spectator

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Printed for J. Richardson, 1823
 

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الصفحة 379 - The sound must seem an echo to the sense : Soft is the strain when Zephyr gently blows, And the smooth stream in smoother numbers flows ; But when loud surges lash the sounding shore, The hoarse, rough verse should like the torrent roar : When Ajax strives some rock's vast- weight to throw, The line too labours, and the words move slow ; Not so, when swift Camilla scours the plain, Flies o'er th' unbending corn, and skims along the main.
الصفحة 29 - OH THAT I were as in months past, as in the days when God preserved me; When his candle shined upon my head, and when by his light I walked through darkness...
الصفحة 236 - A man so various that he seemed to be Not one, but all mankind's epitome : Stiff in opinions, always in the wrong, Was everything by starts and nothing long ; But in the course of one revolving moon Was chymist, fiddler, statesman, and buffoon ; Then all for women, painting, rhyming, drinking, Besides ten thousand freaks that died in thinking.
الصفحة 184 - Lord cardinal, if thou think'st on heaven's bliss, Hold up thy hand, make signal of thy hope. — He dies, and makes no sign.
الصفحة 29 - The blessing of him that was ready to perish came upon me : And I caused the widow's heart to sing for joy. I put on righteousness and it clothed me : My judgment was as a robe and a diadem.
الصفحة 251 - Discretion is the perfection of reason, and a guide to us in all the duties of life : cunning is a kind of instinct that only looks out after our immediate interest and welfare.
الصفحة 93 - The man who will live above his present circumstances, is in great danger of living in a little time much beneath them ; or, as the Italian proverb runs, The Man who lives by Hope will die by Hunger.
الصفحة 223 - When they see it, they shall be troubled with terrible fear, and shall be amazed at the strangeness of his salvation, so far beyond all that they looked for. And...
الصفحة 270 - Twas this deprived my soul of rest, And rais'd such tumults in my breast ; For while I gaz'd, in transport tost, My breath was gone, my voice was lost : My bosom glow'd ; the subtle flame Ran quick through all my vital frame ; O'er my dim eyes a darkness hung ; My ears with hollow murmurs rung. In dewy damps my limbs were chill'd ; My blood with gentle horrors thrill'd ; My feeble pulse forgot to play ; I fainted, sunk, and died away.
الصفحة 370 - I am always pleased with that particular time of the year which is proper for the pickling of dill and cucumbers; but alas! this cry, like the song of the nightingale, is not heard above two months. It would therefore be worth while to consider whether the same air might not in some cases be adapted to other words.

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