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The heart ran o'erWith silent worship of the great of old! The dead but sceptred sovereigns, who still ruleOur spirits from their urns.
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The poor dog, in life the firmest friend,The first to welcome, foremost to defend.
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Better to err with Pope, than shine with Pye.
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Twas twilight, and the sunless day went down Over the waste of waters; like a veil, Which, if withdrawn, would but disclose the frown Of one whose hate is mask'd but to assail.
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I was accused of every monstrous vice by public rumour and private rancour; my name, which had been a knightly or noble one, was tainted. I felt that, if what was whispered, and muttered, and murmured, was true, I was unfit for England; if false, England was unfit for me.
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With just enough of learning to misquote.
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Whose game was empires and whose stakes were thrones,Whose table earth, whose dice were human bones.
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He seemsTo have seen better days, as who has notWho has seen yesterday?
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Venice once was dear, The pleasant place of all festivity, The revel of the earth, the masque of Italy.
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I should like to know who has been carried off, except poor dear me - I have been more ravished myself than anybody since the Trojan war.
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But beef is rare within these oxless isles; Goat's flesh there is, no doubt, and kid, and mutton; And, when a holiday upon them smiles, A joint upon their barbarous spits they put on.
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As the liberty lads o'er the sea Bought their freedom, and cheaply, with blood, So we, boys, we Shall die fighting or live free, And down with all kings but King Ludd!
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Then, fare thee well, deceitful Maid!
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Maidens, like moths, are ever caught, by glare, And Mammon wins his way where seraphs might despair.
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The castled crag of Drachenfels, Frowns o'er the wide and winding Rhine, Whose breast of waters broadly swells Between the banks which bear the vine, And hills all rich with blossom'd trees, And fields which promise corn and wine, And scatter'd cities crowning these, Whose far white walls along them shine.
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Like to the apples on the Dead Sea's shore, All ashes to the taste.
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He scratched his ear, the infallible resource to which embarrassed people have recourse.
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Shelley is truth itself and honour itself notwithstanding his out-of-the-way notions about religion.
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I am so changeable, being everything by turns and nothing long - such a strange melange of good and evil.
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Patience! Hence-that word was madeFor brutes of burthen, not for birds of prey;Preach it to mortals of a dust like thine,-I am not of thine order.
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Hatred is the madness of the heart.
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Physicians mend or end us, Secundum artem; but although we sneer - In health - when ill we call them to attend us, Without the least propensity to jeer.
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The world is a bundle of hay,Mankind are the asses that pull,Each tugs in a different way-And the greatest of all is John Bull!
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Romances paint at full length people's wooing. But only give a bust of marriages.