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Page 466 - For books are not absolutely dead things, but do contain a potency of life in them to be as active as that soul was whose progeny they are...
Page 404 - ON A GIRDLE THAT which her slender waist confined Shall now my joyful temples bind : No monarch but would give his crown His arms might do what this has done. It was my Heaven's extremest sphere, The pale which held that lovely deer : My joy, my grief, my hope, my love Did all within this circle move. A narrow compass ! and yet there Dwelt all that's good, and all that's fair : Give me but what this ribband bound, Take all the rest the Sun goes round.
Page 463 - Only the poet, disdaining to be tied to any such subjection, lifted up with the vigour of his own invention, doth grow in effect into another nature, in making things either better than Nature bringeth forth, or, quite anew - forms such as never were in Nature...
Page 466 - I deny not, but that it is of greatest concernment in the Church and Commonwealth, to have a vigilant eye how books demean themselves as well as men; and thereafter to confine, imprison, and do sharpest justice on them as malefactors.
Page 396 - I know that all the muse's heavenly lays, With toil of sprite which are so dearly bought, As idle sounds, of few or none are sought, That there is nothing lighter than mere praise.
Page 383 - Reach her, about must, and about must go; And what the hill's suddenness resists, win so; Yet strive so, that before age, death's twilight, Thy Soul rest, for none can work in that night. To will, implies delay, therefore now...
Page 248 - Cupid's dart An image is which for ourselves we carve, And, fools, adore in temple of our heart Till that good god make church and churchman starve. True, that true beauty virtue is indeed, Whereof this beauty can be but a shade, Which elements with mortal mixture breed. True, that on earth we are but pilgrims made, And should in soul up to our country move; True, and yet true that I must Stella love.
Page 220 - Is as Elysium to a new-come soul: Not that I love the city or the men, But that it harbours him I hold so dear, The king, upon whose bosom let me die, And with the world be still at enmity.