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Page 190 - And when I die, be sure you let me know Great Homer died three thousand years ago. Why did I write ? what sin to me unknown Dipt me in ink, my parents...
Page 456 - Not far from that most celebrated place,* Where angry Justice shows her awful face ; Where little villains must submit to fate, That great ones may enjoy the world in state; There stands a dome, majestic to the sight, And sumptuous arches bear its oval height ; A golden globe, placed high with artful skill, Seems, to the distant sight, a gilded pill.
Page 59 - Tis strange the Miser should his cares employ To gain those riches he can ne'er enjoy : Is it less strange the Prodigal should waste His wealth to purchase what he ne'er can taste? Not for himself he sees, or hears, or eats; Artists must choose his pictures, music, meats : He buys for Topham drawings and designs; For Pembroke statues, dirty gods, and coins ; Rare monkish manuscripts for Hearne alone, And books for Mead, and butterflies for Sloane.
Page 488 - With speed that, entering, speaks his haste to go, He bids the gazing throng around him fly, And carries fate and physic in his eye...
Page 64 - A Moralist perchance appears; Led, Heaven knows how! to this poor sod: And he has neither eyes nor ears; Himself his world...
Page 46 - For of the most High cometh healing, And he shall receive honour of the king. The skill of the physician shall lift up his head : And in the sight of great men he shall be in admiration.
Page 367 - Better to hunt in fields for health unbought Than fee the doctor for a nauseous draught. The wise for cure on exercise depend ; God never made his work for man to mend.
Page 191 - Service, He acquired, or more properly created, A MINISTERIAL ESTATE. He was the only Person of his Time, Who could CHEAT without the Mask of HONESTY, Retain his Primeval MEANNESS When possessed of TEN THOUSAND a Year, And having daily deserved the GIBBET for what he did, Was at last condemned to it for what he could not do.
Page 368 - My system, doctor, is my own, No tutor I pretend; My blunders hurt myself alone, But yours your dearest friend. Were you to milk and straw confined, Thrice happy might you be; Perhaps you might regain your mind, And from your wit be free.