Night thoughts, and A paraphrase on part of the book of Job. With the life of the author (by sir H. Croft and dr. Johnson).

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1812
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Page 8 - tis madness to defer: Next day the fatal precedent will plead; Thus on, till wisdom is pushed out of life. Procrastination is the thief of time; Year after year it steals, till all are fled. And to the mercies of a moment leaves The vast concerns of an eternal scene.
Page lxiii - TIRED Nature's sweet restorer, balmy Sleep ! He, like the world, his ready visit pays Where Fortune smiles ; the wretched he forsakes ; Swift on his downy pinion flies from woe, And lights on lids unsullied with a tear.
Page 9 - At fifty chides his infamous delay, Pushes his prudent purpose to resolve ; In all the magnanimity of thought Resolves, and re-resolves ; then dies the same. And why ? because he thinks himself immortal : All men think all men mortal, but themselves...
Page 260 - Heaven gives us friends to bless the present scene ; Resumes them, to prepare us for the next. All evils natural are moral goods ; All discipline, indulgence, on the whole. None are unhappy : all have cause to smile, But such as to themselves that cause deny.
Page 311 - Which made the fond astronomer run mad; Darken his intellect, corrupt his heart ; Cause him to sacrifice his fame and peace To momentary madness, call'd delight : Idolater more gross, than ever kiss'd The lifted hand to Luna, or pour'd out The blood to Jove ! — O Thou, to whom belongs All sacrifice ! O Thou great Jove unfeign'd ! Divine Instructor ! Thy first volume this For man's perusal ; all in capitals...
Page lxvii - Unkindled, unconceiv'd, and from an eye Of tenderness let heavenly pity fall On me, more justly number'd with the dead. This is the desert, this the solitude: How populous, how vital is the grave! This is Creation's melancholy vault, The vale funereal, the sad cypress gloom; The land of apparitions, empty shades!
Page 2 - Insatiate archer ! could not one suffice ? Thy shaft flew thrice; and thrice my peace was slain; And thrice, ere thrice yon moon had fill'd her horn.
Page lxv - How poor, how rich, how abject, how august, How complicate, how wonderful, is man ! How passing wonder HE, who made him such...
Page 66 - And what is this ?—Survey the wondrous cure, And at each step let higher wonder rise! ' Pardon for infinite offence! and pardon Through means that speak its value infinite !' A pardon bought with blood! with blood divine* With blood divine of him I made my foe; Persisted to provoke!
Page 14 - Thy purpose firm is equal to the deed. Who does the best his circumstance allows, Does well, acts nobly; angels could no more.

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