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I have found, by trial, Homer a more pleasing task than Virgil (though I say not the translation will be less laborious); for the Grecian is more according to my genius, than the Latin poet.
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It is madness to make fortune the mistress of events, because by herself she is nothing and is ruled by prudence.
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And kind as kings upon their coronation day.
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The first is the law, the last prerogative.
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War is the trade of Kings.
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Men are but children of a larger growth; Our appetites as apt to change as theirs, And full as craving, too, and full as vain.
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Beauty, like ice, our footing does betray; Who can tread sure on the smooth, slippery way: Pleased with the surface, we glide swiftly on, And see the dangers that we cannot shun.
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Timotheus, to his breathing flute, And sounding lyre,Could swell the soul to rage, or kindle soft desire.
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And threat'ning France, plac'd like a painted Jove,Kept idle thunder in his lifted hand.
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I am reading Jonson's verses to the memory of Shakespeare; an insolent, sparing, and invidious panegyric...
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Words are but pictures of our thoughts.
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All objects lose by too familiar a view.
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Sigh'd and look'd, and sigh'd again.
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An horrid stillness first invades the ear,And in that silence we the tempest fear.
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Beware the fury of a patient man.
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His hair just grizzled,As in a green old age.
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What passions cannot music raise or quell?
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Old as I am, for ladies' love unfit,The power of beauty I remember yet.
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Railing in other men may be a crime,But ought to pass for mere instinct in him:Instinct he follows and no further knows,For to write verse with him is to transpose.
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For those whom God to ruin has design'd,He fits for fate, and first destroys their mind.
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She knows her man, and when you rant and swear,Can draw you to her with a single hair.
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For truth has such a face and such a mien, as to be loved needs only to be seen.
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Happy, happy, happy pair!None but the brave, None but the brave,None but the brave deserves the fair.
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Large was his wealth, but larger was his heart.