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Kneller, by Heaven and not a master taught
Whose art was nature, and whose pictures thought,
. . . .
Living great Nature fear'd he might outvie
Her works; and dying, fears herself may die.
- inscription on the monument of Sir Geofrey Kneller in Westminster Abbey
Led by my hand, he saunter'd Europe round,
And gather'd every vice on Christian ground.
Let fortune do her worst, whatever she makes us lose, so long as she never makes us lose our honesty and our independence.
- [Fortune : Independence]
Let sinful bachelors their woes deplore, full well they merit all they feel, and more.
Let those teach others who themselves excel; and censure freely, who have written well.
Looks through nature up to nature's God.
Love seldom haunts the breast where learning lies.
Love the offender, yet detest the offence.
Man, like the generous vine, supported lives; the strength he gains is from the embrace he gives.
Mankind is unamendable.
Many men have been capable of doing a wise thing, more a cunning thing, but very few a generous thing.
Men dream in courtship, but in wedlock wake!
Modest plainness sets off sprightly wit,
For works may have more with than does 'em good,
As bodies perish through excess of blood.
Monuments, like men, submit to fate.
Music the fiercest grief can charm,
And fate's severest rage disarm. Music can soften pain to ease,
And make despair and madness please;
Our joys below it can improve,
And antedate the bliss above.
My languid numbers have forgot to flow, and fancy sinks beneath a weight of woe.
Next, o'er his books is eyes began to roll,
In pleasing memory of all he stole,
How here he sipp'd, how there he plunder'd snug,
And suck'd all o'er, like an industrious bug.
No woman ever hates a man for being in love with her, but many a woman hates a man for being a friend to her.
Nor in the critic let the man be lost.
Not a vanity is given in vain.
Not poetry, but prose run mad.
Nothing is more certain than much of the force; as well as grace, of arguments or instructions depends their conciseness.
Now deep in ocean sunk the lamp of light,
And drew behind the cloudy veil of night.
O! bless'd with temper, whose unclouded ray
Can make to-morrow cheerful as to-day;
She who can own a sister's charms, or hear
Sighs for a daughter with unwounded ear;
She who ne'er answers till a husband cools,
Or, if she rules him, never shows she rules.
O'er the twilight droves and dusky caves,
Long-sounding aisles, and intermingled graves,
Black Melancholy sits, and round her throws
A death-like silence and a dread repose;
Her gloomy presence saddens all the scene,
Shades ev'ry flower, and darkens ev'ry green;
Deepens the murmur of the falling floods,
And breathes a browner horror on the woods.
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