The grove; or, A collection of original poems, translations, &c. by W. Walsh ... and other eminent hands

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Page 232 - And knaves and fools we both abhorr'd alike. To the same goal did both our studies drive; The last set out the soonest did arrive. Thus Nisus fell upon the slippery place, While his young friend perform'd and won the race. O early ripe! to thy abundant store What could advancing age have added more?
Page 239 - Wycherley in wit. Let thy own Gauls condemn thee, if they dare ; Contented to be thinly regular : Born there, but not for them, our fruitful foil With more increafe rewards thy happy toil.
Page 231 - FAREWELL, too little, and too lately known, Whom I began to think and call my own: For sure our souls were near allied, and thine Cast in the same poetic mould with mine.
Page 39 - By absence this good means I gain, That I can catch her, Where none can watch her, In some close corner of my brain; There I embrace and kiss her, And so I both enjoy and miss her.
Page 235 - The heavenly choir, who heard his notes from high, Let down the scale of music from the sky: They handed him along, And all the way he taught, and all the way they sung Ye brethren of the lyre, and tuneful voice, Lament his lot; but at your own rejoice: Now live secure, and linger out your days; The gods are pleased alone with Purcell's lays, Nor know to mend their choice.
Page 229 - In fpite of age, experience, and decays, Sets up for Charming, in her fading days ; Snuffs her dim eyes to give one parting blow, Have at the heart of every ogling beau ! This goodly goofe, all feather'd like a jay, So gravely vain, and fo demurely gay, Laft night, t...
Page 232 - But satire needs not those, and wit will shine Through the harsh cadence of a rugged line. A noble error, and but seldom made, When poets are by too much force betrayed. Thy generous fruits, though gathered ere their prime, Still showed a quickness ; and maturing time But mellows what we write to the dull sweets of rhyme.
Page 306 - Twas a just judgment on their constancy.' For; Heaven be thank'd, we live in such an age, When no man dies for love, but on the stage: And e'en those martyrs are but rare in plays ; A cursed sign how much true faith decays. Love is no more a violent desire ; Tis a mere metaphor, a painted fire.
Page 239 - Should over-match the most, and match the best• In under-praising thy deserts, I wrong ; Here find the first deficience of our tongue : Words, once my stock, are wanting, to commend So great a poet, and so good a friend.
Page 236 - Mufes' foes Would fink their Maker's praifes into profe. Were they content to prune the lavifh vine Of ftraggling branches, and improve the wine, Who, but a madman, would his thoughts defend ? All would fubmit; for all but fools will mend. But when to common fenfe they give the lye, And turn diftorted words to blafphemy, They give the fcandal; and the wife difcern, Their glories teach an age, too apt to learn.

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