A History of American Literature

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Oxford University Press, American branch, 1912 - 502 pages
 

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Page 96 - If Time be of all Things the most precious, wasting Time must be, as Poor Richard says, the greatest Prodigality; since, as he elsewhere tells us, Lost Time is never found again; and what we call Time enough, always proves little enough...
Page 96 - Industry all easy, as Poor Richard says; and He that riseth late, must trot all Day, and shall scarce overtake his Business at Night. While Laziness travels so slowly, that Poverty soon overtakes him...
Page 295 - And a verse of a Lapland song Is haunting my memory still: "A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.
Page 53 - You sinners are, and such a share As sinners may expect, Such you shall have; for I do save None but mine own elect. Yet to compare your sin with their, Who lived a longer time, I do confess yours is much less, Though every sin's a crime.
Page 43 - mend his Native Country, lamentably tattered, both in the upper-Leather and sole, with all the honest stitches he can take.
Page 115 - These are the times that try men's souls : The summer soldier and the sunshine patriot will in this crisis, shrink from the service of his country; but he that stands it Now, deserves the love and thanks of man and woman.
Page 30 - They allso set up a May-pole, drinking and dancing aboute it many days togeather, inviting the Indean women, for their consorts, dancing and frisking togither, (like so many fairies, or furies rather,) and worse practises.
Page 194 - GREEN be the turf above thee, Friend of my better days ! None knew thee but to love thee, Nor named thee but to praise.
Page 274 - Ez fer war, I call it murder, — There you hev it plain an' flat ; I don't want to go no furder Than my Testyment fer that ; God hez sed so plump an' fairly, It's ez long ez it is broad, An' you've gut to git up airly Ef you want to take in God.
Page 50 - To sing of Wars, of Captains, and of Kings, Of Cities founded, Common-wealths begun, For my mean pen are too superiour things: Or how they all, or each their dates have run Let Poets and Historians set these forth, My obscure Lines shall not so dim their worth. But when my wondring eyes and envious heart Great Bartas...

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