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The gems of heaven, that gild night's sable throne.
The gods from heaven survey the fatal strife, and mourn the miseries of human life.
The good we have enjoyed from Heaven's free will, and shall we murmur to endure the ill?
The greater part performed achieves the less.
The idea of the painter and the sculptor is undoubtedly that perfect and excellent example of the mind, by imitation of which imagined form all things are represented which fall under human sight.
The lucky have whole days which still they choose; the unlucky have but hours, and those they lose.
The mourner yew and builder oak were there.
The night, proceeding on with silent pace, stood in her noon, and viewed with equal face her sleepy rise and her declining race.
The perverseness of my fate is such that he's not mine because he's mine too much.
The propriety of thoughts and words, which are the hidden beauties of a play, are but confusedly judged in the vehemence of action.
The province of the soul is large enough to fill up every cranny of your time, and leave you much to answer for if one wretch be damned by your neglect.
The scum that rises upmost, when the nation boils.
The secret pleasure of a generous act, is the great mind's great bribe.
- [Benevolence : Charity]
The spongy clouds are filled with gathering rain.
The sun was set, and Vesper, to supply his absent beams, had lighted up the sky.
The tears that stood considering in her eyes.
The tempest is o'er-blown, the skies are clear,
And the sea charm'd into a calm so still
That not a wrinkle ruffles her smooth face.
The trees were unctuous fir, and mountain ash.
The winds are out of breath.
The wise for cure on exercise depend: God never made His work for man to mend.
The wretched have no friends.
Their smiles and censures are to me the same.
Then 'tis our best, since thus ordain'd to die,
To make a virtue of necessity.
Take what he gives, since to rebel is vain,
The bad grows better which we well sustain,
And could we choose the time and choose aright,
'Tis best to die, our honor at the height.
Then after length of time, the labouring swains,
Who turn the turfs of those unhappy plains,
Shall rusty piles from the plough'd furrows take,
And over empty helmets pass the rake;
Amazed at antique titles on the stones,
And mighty relics of gigantic bones.
Then for the style, majestic and divine,
It speaks no less than God in every line;
Commanding words; whose force is still the same
As the first fiat that produced our frame.
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