Untrodden English Ways

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Little, Brown,, 1908 - 341 pages
 

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Page 111 - Unblam'd through life, lamented in thy end ; These are thy honours ! not that here thy bust Is mix'd with heroes, or with kings thy dust ; But that the worthy and the good shall say, Striking their pensive bosoms — Here lies Gay...
Page 207 - The seas are quiet when the winds give o'er; So, calm are we when passions are no more! For then we know how vain it was to boast Of fleeting things, so certain to be lost.
Page 133 - Poetry, appeared to be compositions infinitely superior to the allegory of the preaching tinker. We live in better times ; and we are not afraid to say, that, though there were many clever men in England during the latter half of the seventeenth century, there were only two minds which possessed the imaginative faculty in a very eminent degree. One of those minds produced the Paradise Lost, the other the Pilgrim's Progress.
Page 133 - I know of no book, the Bible excepted, as above all comparison, which I, according to my judgment and experience, could so safely recommend as teaching and enforcing the whole saving truth, according to the mind that was in Christ Jesus, as the
Page 103 - Drayton's name, whose sacred dust We recommend unto thy trust : Protect his mem'ry, and preserve his story ; Remain a lasting monument of his glory ; And when thy ruins shall disclaim To be the treasurer of his name, His name, that cannot fade, shall be An everlasting monument to thee.
Page 239 - And now it is all gone— like an unsubstantial pageant, faded ; and between us and the old English there lies a gulf of mystery which the prose of the historian will never adequately bridge. They cannot come to us, and our imagination can but feebly penetrate to them.
Page 110 - Life is a jest, and all things show it, I thought so once, but now I know it, with what more you may think proper.
Page 93 - But the poor dog, in life the firmest friend, The first to welcome, foremost to defend, Whose honest heart is still his master's own, Who labours, fights, lives, breathes for him alone...
Page 32 - T'other day, much in want of a subject for song ; Thinks I to myself, I have hit on a strain, — Sure marriage is much like a Devonshire lane.
Page 88 - We played at whist till four in the morning. On Sunday we amused ourselves with eating fruit in the garden, and shooting at a mark with pistols, and playing with the monkeys. I bathed in the cold bath in the grotto, which is as clear as crystal and as cold as ice. Oatlands is the worst managed establishment in England ; there are a great many servants, and nobody waits on you ; a vast number of horses, and none to ride or drive.

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