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Or call up him that left half toldThe story of Cambuscan bold.
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As children gath'ring pebbles on the shore. Or if I would delight my private hours With music or with poem, where so soon As in our native language can I find That solace?
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That practis'd falsehood under saintly shew, Deep malice to conceal, couch'd with revenge.
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The conquer'd, also, and enslaved by war, Shall, with their freedom lost, all virtue lose.
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If all the world Should in a pet of temperance, feed on pulse, Drink the clear stream, and nothing wear but frieze, Th' All-giver would be unthank'd, would be unprais'd.
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Wealth and honours, which most men pursue, easily change masters; they desert to the side which excels in virtue, industry, and endurance of toil, and they abandon the slothful.
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Beholding the bright countenance of truth in the quiet and still air of delightful studies.
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Morn, Wak'd by the circling hours, with rosy hand Unbarr'd the gates of light.
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From that high mount of God whence light and shade Spring both, the face of brightest heaven had changed To grateful twilight.
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Thy liquid notes that close the eye of day.
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For books are not absolutely dead things, but do contain a potency of life in them to be as active as that soul was whose progeny they are; nay, they do preserve as in a vial the purest efficacy and extraction of that living intellect that bred them.
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He who reigns within himself and rules passions, desires, and fears is more than a king.
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Truth and understanding are not such wares as to be monopolized and traded in by tickets and statutes and standards. We must not think to make a staple commodity of all the knowledge in the land, to mark and license it like our broadcloth and our woolpacks.
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How often from the steep Of echoing hill or thicket have we heard Celestial voices to the midnight air, Sole, or responsive each to other's note, Singing their great Creator?
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And I will place within them as a guide My umpire conscience, whom if they will hear Light after light well used they shall attain, And to the end persisting, safe arrive.
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For men to tell how human life began Is hard; for who himself beginning knew?
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Just deeds are the best answer to injurious words.
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Bacchus, that first from out the purple grape Crush'd the sweet poison of misused wine.
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Nor love thy life, nor hate; but what thou livest, Live well; how long, or short, permit to Heaven.
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Nor turned I ween Adam from his fair spouse, nor Eve the rites Mysterious of connubial love refused: Whatever hypocrites austerely talk Of purity and place and innocence, Defaming as impure what God declares Pure, and commands to some, leaves free to all.
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Joking decides great things, Stronger and better oft than earnest can.
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From morn To noon he fell, from noon to dewy eve,- A summer's day; and with the setting sun Dropp'd from the Zenith like a falling star.
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Rather than be less Car'd not to be at all.
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My mansion is, where those immortal shapes Of bright aerial spirits live insphered In regions mild of calm and serene air, Above the smoke and stir of this dim spot Which men call Earth.