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Page 100 - Therefore rejoice, ye heavens, and ye that dwell in them. Woe to the inhabiters of the earth and of the sea ! for the devil is come down unto you, having great wrath, because he knoweth that he hath but a short time.
Page 43 - Though loud at first the pilgrim's passion grew, Sudden he gaz'd, and wist not what to do; Surprise in secret chains his words suspends, And in a calm his settling temper ends. But silence here the beauteous angel broke, The voice of music ravish'd as he spoke.
Page 94 - He now became troubled with the passion for reforming the world* He built many castles in the air, and peopled them with secret tribunals, and bands of illuminati, who were always the imaginary instruments of his projected regeneration of the human species.
Page 43 - Approach'd the careless guide, and thrust him in : Plunging he falls, and rising lifts his head ; Then flashing turns, and sinks among the dead ! Wild, sparkling rage inflames the Father's eyes, ^He bursts the bands of fear, and madly cries, 'Detested wretch...
Page 75 - He shakes his bag, he shows all fair : His fingers spread, and nothing there ; Then bids it rain with showers of gold ; And now his ivory eggs are told ; But when from thence the hen he draws, Amaz'd spectators hum applause.
Page 149 - Tis Jove's decree, In a bowl Care may not be ; In a bowl Care may not be. Fear ye not the waves that roll ? No : in charmed bowl we swim. What the charm that floats the bowl ? Water may not pass the brim. The bowl goes trim. The moon doth shine. And our ballast is old wine ; And your ballast is old wine.
Page 76 - By clean conveyance disappear; And now two bloody swords are there. A purse she to a thief exposed; At once his ready fingers closed. He opes his fist, the treasure's fled; He sees a halter in its stead.
Page 20 - Watch ye for ye know not the day nor the hour when the Son of Man cometh an impressive solemn discourse — [March] 14 Tuesday Evening  Quite unwell last evening but about.
Page 86 - Oh, it's your only fine humour, sir; your true melancholy breeds your perfect fine wit, sir. I am melancholy myself, divers times, sir, and then do I no more but take pen and paper, presently, and overflow you half a score, or a dozen of sonnets at a sitting.