The Works of Anacreon, and Sappho: Done from the Greek, by Several Hands. With Their Lives Prefix'd. To which is Added, The Prize of Wisdom. A Dialogue Between Anacreon and Aristotle

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E. Curll, 1713 - 89 pages
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Page 20 - Nature's sober found, But an eternal health goes round. Fill up the bowl, then, fill it high, Fill all the glasses there, for why Should every creature drink but I : Why, man of morals, tell me why 1 BEAUTY.
Page 47 - tis a pain that pain to miss. But of all pain the greatest pain It is to love, but love in vain. Virtue now, nor noble blood, Nor wit by love is understood. Gold alone does passion move, Gold monopolizes love ! A curse on her, and on the man Who this traffic...
Page 44 - Thou dost drink, and dance, and sing, Happier than the happiest king! All the fields which thou dost see, All the plants belong to thee; All that summer hours produce, Fertile made with early juice. Man for thee does sow and plough; Farmer he, and landlord thou!
Page 13 - Tis time to live if I grow old. 'Tis time short pleasures now to take, Of little life the best to make, And manage wisely the last stake.
Page 33 - Write me at Lesbos ninety down, Full ninety loves, and half a one. And, next to these, let me present The fair Ionian regiment ; And next the Carian company ; Five hundred both effectively. Three hundred more at Rhodes and Crete ; Three hundred 'tis, I'm sure, complete ; For arms at Crete each face does bear, And every eye's an archer there.
Page 15 - Like fome new Ajax, I did wield. Love in one hand his bow did take, In th...
Page 74 - O'er my dim eyes a darknefs hung, My ears with hollow murmurs rung. In dewy damps my limbs were chill'd, My blood with gentle horrors thrill'd, My feeble pulfe forgot to play, I fainted, funk, and dy'd away.
Page 33 - Th* arithmetician of my love. An hundred loves at Athens fcore, At Corinth write an hundred more: Fair Corinth does fuch beauties bear, So few is an efcaping there [*]. Write then at Chios feventy-three; Write then at Lefbos (let me fee) Write me at Lefbos ninety down, Full ninety loves, and half a one.
Page 5 - To death itself now to betray. It grieves me when I see what fate Does on the best of mankind wait. Poets or lovers let them be, T is neither love nor poesy Can arm, against death's smallest dart, The poet's head or lover's heart ; But when their life, in its decline, Touches th...
Page 7 - Graceful, cleanly, smooth, and round, All with Venus' girdle bound ; And thy life was all the while Kind and gentle as thy style.

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