The Works of the English Poets: With Prefaces, Biographical and Critical, Volume 10 (Google eBook)

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H. Hughs, 1779 - English poetry
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Page 251 - Let not those agonies be vain. Thou whom avenging powers obey, Cancel my debt (too great to pay) Before the sad accounting day.
Page 296 - Like transitory dreams given o'er, Whose images are kept in store By memory alone. The time that is to come is not; How can it then be mine? The present moment's all my lot; And that, as fast as it is got, Phillis, is only thine.
Page 337 - ... deny'd ? And may not I have leave impartially To search and censure Dryden's works, and try If those gross faults his choice pen doth commit Proceed from want of judgment, or of wit ? Or if his lumpish fancy does refuse Spirit and grace to his loose slattern Muse ? Five hundred verses every morning writ, Prove him no more a poet than a wit...
Page 219 - Comment that your Care can find, Some here, some there, may hit the Poet's Mind; Yet be not blindly guided by the Throng; The Multitude is always in the Wrong.
Page 318 - ... take care Upon this point, not to be too severe. Perhaps my muse were fitter for this part, For I profess I can be very smart On wit, which I abhor with all my heart.
Page 336 - Dryden in vain tried this nice way of wit; For he, to be a tearing blade, thought fit To give the ladies a dry bawdy bob ; And thus he got the name of Poet Squab. But to be just, 'twill to his praise be found, His excellencies more than faults abound ; Nor dare I from his sacred temples tear The laurel, which he best deserves to wear.
Page 317 - Then old Age, and Experience, hand in hand, Lead him to Death, and make him understand, After a search so painful, and so long, That all his Life he has been in the wrong.
Page 294 - That tears my fixed heart from my love. When, wearied with a world of woe, To thy safe bosom I retire Where love and peace and truth does flow, May I contented there expire, Lest, once more wandering from that Heaven, I fall on some base heart unblest, Faithless to thee, false, unforgiven, And lose my everlasting rest.
Page 326 - Ere time and place were, time and place were not, When primitive Nothing something straight begot, Then all proceeded from the great united — What.
Page 215 - Tis true, composing is the nobler part, But good translation is no easy art : For tho' materials have long since been found, Yet both your fancy, and your hands are bound , And by improving what was writ before, Invention labours less, but judgment more.

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