Select Beauties of Ancient English Poetry: With Remarks, Volume 1

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T. Cadell, 1787 - 198 pages
 

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Page 26 - curious things : Looking upon proud Phaeton wrapt in fire, The gentle Queen did much bewail his fall; But Mortimer commended his defire, To lofe one poor life, or to govern all: " What though (quoth he) he madly did afpire. , " And his great mind made him proud Fortune's thrall;
Page 38 - he trac'd too well, He toft his troubled eyes embers that glow Now with new rage, and wax too hot for Hell. With his foul claws he fenc'd his furrowed brow, And gave a
Page xxxix - Pagan gods and Gothic fairies were equally out of credit when Milton wrote; he did well, therefore, to fupply their room with angels and devils. If thefe too fliould wear out of the popular creed (and they
Page 94 - Out at a little grate his eyes he caft Upon thofe bord'ring hills, and open plain, And views the Town, and fees how people pafs'd ; Where others liberty makes him complain The more his own, and grieves his
Page 24 - in a fright, With the reflection that their armour gave, As it till then had ne'er feen any light; Which, ftriving there preheminence to have, Darknefs therewith fo daringly doth fight, That each confounding other, both appear, As darknefs light, and light but darknefs were,
Page xii - the Court, and well looked upon by the King himfelf, fome years before he could obtain to be Sewer to the King; and when the King conferred that place upon him, it was not
Page 37 - bright a dawn of Angels with new light Amaz'd the midnight World, and made a day Of which the morning knew not, mad with fpight He markt how the
Page xxxix - wear out of the popular creed (and they feem in a hopeful way, from the liberty fome late critics have taken with them), I know not what other expedients the Epic poet might have recourfe to ; but this I know, the pomp of verfe, the energy of defcription, and even the fineft moral paintings, would ftand him in no ftead without admiration (which cannot be
Page 1 - there have died, Her bodie thin, and bare as any bone, Whereto was left nought but the cafe alone. And that, alas, was
Page 10 - worthieft of them all, Her hope, her joy, his force is now for nought: O Troy, Troy, there is no boote but bale, The hugie

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