Ars Quatuor Coronatorum: Being the Transactions of the Quatuor Coronati Lodge No. 2076, London, Volume 21

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W. J. Parre H, Limited, 1908
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Page 14 - Now therefore command thou that they hew me cedar trees out of Lebanon; and my servants shall be with thy servants: and unto thee will...
Page 14 - In those days there was no king in Israel: every man did that which was right in his own eyes.
Page 303 - I gathered me also silver and gold, and the peculiar treasure of kings ; and of the provinces I gat me men singers and women singers, and the delights of the sons of men, as musical instruments, and that of all sorts ; so I was great and increased more than all that were before me in Jerusalem.
Page 54 - Whilst this hard truth I teach, methinks, I see The monster London laugh at me ; I should at thee too, foolish city ! If it were fit to laugh at misery; But thy estate I pity.
Page 257 - Four guardian Virtues, round, support her throne : Fierce champion Fortitude, that knows no fears Of hisses, blows, or want, or loss of ears : Calm Temperance, whose blessings those partake Who hunger and who thirst for scribbling' sake : Prudence, whose glass presents the approaching jail; Poetic Justice, with her lifted scale, Where, in nice balance, truth with gold she weighs, And solid pudding against empty praise.
Page 304 - And the house, when it was in building, was built of stone made ready before it was brought thither so that there was neither hammer nor axe nor any tool of iron heard in the house, while it was in building.
Page 256 - Flow, Welsted, flow ! like thine inspirer, beer, Though stale, not ripe ; though thin, yet never clear ; So sweetly mawkish, and so smoothly dull ; Heady, not strong ; o'erflowing, though not full.
Page 247 - Some say, compar'd to Bononcini, That Mynheer Handel's but a ninny ; Others aver that he to Handel Is scarcely fit to hold a candle.' Strange all this difference should be Twixt Tweedledum and Tweedledee.
Page 16 - ... ascent by which he went up into the house of the LORD; there was no more spirit in her.
Page 264 - He spins the slight, self-pleasing thread anew: Destroy his fib or sophistry, in vain, The creature's at his dirty work again, Throned in the centre of his thin designs, Proud of a vast extent of flimsy lines! Whom have I hurt? has poet yet, or peer, Lost the arch'd eyebrow, or Parnassian sneer?

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