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Seite 273 - HE that hath wife and children hath given hostages to fortune ; for they are impediments to great enterprises, either of virtue or mischief. Certainly the best works, and of greatest merit for the public, have proceeded from the unmarried or childless men; which, both in affection and means, have married and endowed the public.
Seite 272 - He that is unmarried careth for the things that belong to the Lord, how he may please the Lord: but he that is married careth for the things that are of the world, how he may please his wife.
Seite 294 - That hangs his head, and a' that! The coward slave, we pass him by, We dare be poor for a' that! For a' that, and a' that, Our toils obscure, and a' that; The rank is but the guinea's stamp, The Man's the gowd for a
Seite 326 - Love took up the harp of life, and smote on all the chords with might; Smote the chord of self, that, trembling, passed in music out of sight.
Seite 202 - A POET'S EPITAPH. Stop, Mortal ! Here thy brother lies, The Poet of- the Poor. His books were rivers, woods, and skies, The meadow, and the moor ; His teachers were the torn hearts...
Seite 77 - And view the ground's most gentle dimplement (As if God's finger touched but did not press In making England), such an up and down Of verdure, — nothing too much up or down, A ripple of land ; such little hills, the sky Can stoop to tenderly and the wheat-fields climb...
Seite 167 - Stop up the access and passage to remorse; That no compunctious visitings of nature Shake my fell purpose, nor keep peace between The effect, and it ! Come to my woman's breasts, And take my milk for gall, you murd'ring ministers...
Seite 167 - The effect and it ! Come to my woman's breasts, And take my milk for gall, you murdering ministers, Wherever in your sightless substances You wait on nature's mischief! Come, thick night, And pall thee in the dunnest smoke of hell, That my keen knife see not the wound it makes, 50 Nor heaven peep through the blanket of the dark, To cry 'Hold, hold!
Seite 199 - While fed by mine and me, And wringing food, and clothes and fire From bread-tax'd misery ? Make haste, slow rogues ! prohibit trade, Prohibit honest gain ; Turn all the good that God hath made To fear, and hate, and pain ; Till beggars all, assassins all, All cannibals we be, And death shall have no funeral From shipless sea to sea.