The Works of Horace: Translated Into English Verse, with a Life and Notes, Volume 2

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W. Blackwoods, 1881
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Page 76 - Happy the man, and happy he alone, He, who can call to-day his own: He who secure within, can say, To-morrow do thy worst, for I have lived to-day.
Page 406 - Yet must I not give Nature all : thy art My gentle Shakespeare, must enjoy a part. For though the poet's matter, Nature be, His art doth give the fashion.
Page 363 - True ease in writing comes from art, not chance, As those move easiest who have learned to dance.
Page 51 - A shadow flits before me, Not thou, but like to thee; Ah Christ, that it were possible For one short hour to see The souls we loved, that they might tell us What and where they be.
Page iii - Received his laws, and stood convinc'd 'twas fit, Who conquer'd nature, should preside o'er wit. Horace still charms with graceful negligence, And without method talks us into sense : Will, like a friend, familiarly convey The truest notions in the easiest way.
Page 300 - Garden; the very women of the town; the watchmen, drunken scenes, rattles; life awake, if you awake, at all hours of the night; the impossibility of being dull in Fleet Street; the crowds, the very dirt and mud, the sun shining upon houses and pavements, the...
Page 75 - Give strong drink unto him that is ready to perish, and wine unto those that be of heavy hearts. Let him drink and forget his poverty and remember his misery no more.
Page 38 - A TROUBLE, not of clouds, or weeping rain, Nor of the setting sun's pathetic light Engendered, hangs o'er Eildon's triple height : Spirits of power, assembled there, complain For kindred power departing from their sight ; While Tweed, best pleased in chanting a blithe strain, Saddens his voice again, and yet again.
Page 72 - How often have I stole forth in the coldest night in January, and found him in the garden, stuck like a dripping statue! There would he kneel to me in the snow, and sneeze and cough so pathetically! he shivering with cold, and I with apprehension! and while the freezing blast numbed our joints, how warmly would he press me to pity his flame, and glow with mutual ardour! Ah, Julia, that was something like being in love!
Page 294 - Passages which to a boy are but rhetorical commonplaces, neither better nor worse than a hundred others which any clever writer might supply, which he gets by heart and thinks very fine, and imitates, as he thinks, successfully in his own flowing versification, at length come home to him when long years have passed and he has had experience of life, and pierce him as if he had never before known them with their sad earnestness and vivid exactness.

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