The Works of Lord Byron: With His Letters and Journals,

John Murray, Albemarles Street., 1832
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第 294 頁 - By nature vile, ennobled but by name, Each kindred brute might bid thee blush for shame. Ye ! who perchance behold this simple urn, Pass on — it honours none you wish to mourn : To mark a friend's remains these stones arise ; I never knew but one, — and here he lies.
第 239 頁 - Who, both by precept and example, shows That prose is verse, and verse is merely prose...
第 176 頁 - And I said, Oh that I had wings like a dove ! for then would I fly away, and be at rest.
第 293 頁 - But the poor dog, in life the firmest friend, The first to welcome, foremost to defend, Whose honest heart is still his master's own, Who labours, fights, lives, breathes for him alone, Unhonoured falls, unnoticed all his worth, Denied in heaven the soul he held on earth: While man, vain insect!
第 217 頁 - START not — nor deem my spirit fled : In me behold the only skull, From which, unlike a living head, Whatever flows is never dull. I lived, I loved, I quaff'd, like thee ; I died : let earth my bones resign : Fill up — thou canst not injure me ; The worm hath fouler lips than thine. » Better to hold the sparkling grape, Than nurse the earth-worm's slimy brood ; And circle in the goblet's shape The drink of Gods, than reptile's food. Where once my wit, perchance, hath shone, In aid of others...
第 229 頁 - twill pass for wit ; Care not for feeling — pass your proper jest, And stand a critic, hated yet caress'd. And shall we own such judgment ? No: as soon Seek roses in December — ice in June ; Hope constancy in wind, or corn in chaff; Believe a woman or an epitaph, Or any other thing that's false, before You trust in critics, who themselves are sore ; Or yield one single thought to be misled By Jeffrey's heart, or Lambe's Boeotian head.
第 291 頁 - I kiss'd it for its mother's sake. I kiss'd it, — and repress'd my sighs Its father in its face to see : But then it had its mother's eyes, And they were all to love and me. Mary, adieu ! I must away : While thou art blest I'll not repine ; But near thee I can never stay ; My heart would soon again be thine. I deem'd that time, I deem'd that pride, Had quench'd at length my boyish flame ; Nor knew, till seated by thy side, My heart in all — save hope — the same.
第 239 頁 - Next comes the dull disciple of thy school, That mild apostate from poetic rule, The simple Wordsworth, framer of a lay As soft as evening in his favourite May, Who warns his friend 'to shake off toil and trouble, And quit his books, for fear of growing double...
第 171 頁 - Our union would have healed feuds in which blood had been shed by our fathers, it would have joined lands broad and rich, it would have joined at least one heart, and two persons not ill matched in years (she is two years my elder), and — and — and — what has been the result?
第 188 頁 - THE poesy of this young lord belongs to the class which neither gods nor men are said to permit Indeed, we do not recollect to have seen a quantity of verse with so few deviations in either direction from that exact standard. His effusions are spread over a dead flat, and can no more get above or below the level, than if they were so much stagnant water.