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My copper medals by the pound
May be with learned justice weigh'd:
To turn the balance, Otho's head
May be thrown in; and for the mettle
The coin may mend a tinker's kettle.
PRIOR: Alma.

My copper lamps, at any rate,
For being true antique I bought;
Yet wisely melted down my plate
On modern models to be wrought;
And trifles I alike pursue
Because they're old, because they're new.
PRIOR: Alma.
His chamber all was hang'd about with rolls,
And old records from antient times derived;
Some made in books, some in long parchment
scrolls,

That were all worm-eaten, and full of canker holes.

SPENSER.

Rare are the buttons of a Roman's breeches,
In antiquarian eyes surpassing riches;
Rare is each crack'd, black, rotten, earthen dish,
That held of ancient Rome the flesh and fish.
DR. WOLCOTT.
How his eyes languish! how his thoughts adore
That painted coat which Joseph never wore!
He shows, on holidays, a sacred pin

That touch'd the ruff that touch'd Queen Bess's

chin.

YOUNG: Love of Fame.

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ARCHITECTURE.

Our fathers next, in architecture skill'd,
Cities for use, and forts for safety build:
Then palaces and lofty domes arose;
These for devotion, and for pleasure those.

SIR R. BLACKMORE.

Silently as a dream the fabric rose,

No sound of hammer or of saw was there. COWPER: Task.

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Firm Doric pillars found the solid base,
And all below is strength, and all above is grace.
The fair Corinthian crown the higher space,
DRYDEN.

His son builds on, and never is content
Till the last farthing is in structure spent.
DRYDEN.

No hammers fell, no ponderous axes rung;
Like some tall palm the mystic fabric sprung;
Majestic silence!

HEBER: Palestine.

Let my due feet never fail
To walk the studious cloisters pale,
And love the high embowed roof,
With antique pillars massy proof;
And storied windows richly dight,
Casting a dim religious light.

The hasty multitude

MILTON.

Admiring enter'd; and the work some praise,
And some the architect: his hand was known
In heav'n by many a tower'd structure high;
Where sceptred angels held their residence,
And sat as princes.

MILTON.

Ecbatana her structure vast there shows,
And Hecatompylos her hundred gates.

MILTON.

Whene'er we view some well-proportion'd dome,
No single parts unequally surprise;
All comes united to th' admiring eyes.

РОРЕ.

Windows and doors in nameless sculpture drest, On Doric pillars of white marble rear'd,

Westward a pompous frontispiece appear'd,

With order, symmetry, or taste unblest; Forms like some bedlam statuary's dream, The crazed creation of misguided whim.

How rev'rend is the face of this tall pile, BURNS. Whose ancient pillars rear their marble heads To bear aloft its arch'd and pond'rous roof!

Crown'd with an architrave of antique mould,
And sculpture rising on the roughen'd gold.
POPE.

There stands a structure of majestic frame.

POPE.

With her the temple ev'ry moment grew,

By its own weight made steadfast and immovable: Upward the columns shoot, the roofs ascend,

Looking

tranquillity! It strikes an awe And terror to my aching sight! The tombs And monumental caves of death look cold, And shoot a chillness to my trembling heart. CONGREVE: Mourning Bride.

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And arches widen, and long aisles ascend.

POPE.

The growing tow'rs like exhalations rise,
And the huge columns heave into the skies.

POPE.

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ARISTOCRACY.

Grant her, besides, of noble blood that ran In ancient veins, ere heraldry began.

DRYDEN.

Nigh at hand,

Celestial armory, shields, helms, and spears, Hung high, with diamonds flaming and with gold.

May none whose scatter'd names honour my The arm'rers temper in the ford

book,

For strict degrees of rank or title look;

'Tis 'gainst the manner of an epigram,

MILTON.

The keen-edged pole-ax, or the shining sword; The red-hot metal hisses in the lake.

РОРЕ.

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From Egypt arts their progress made to Greece, Their arts victorious triumph'd o'er our arms. Wrapt in the fable of the golden fleece.

SIR J. DENHAM.

The soldier then in Grecian arts unskill'd,
Returning rich with plunder from the field,
If cups of silver or of gold he brought
With jewels set, and exquisitely wrought,
To glorious trappings strait the plate he turn'd,
And with the glitt'ring spoil his horse adorn'd.
DRYDEN.

What wonder if the kindly beams he shed,
Revived the drooping arts again;
If science raised her head,
And soft humanity, that from rebellion fled.
DRYDEN.

All arts and artists Theseus could command,
Who sold for hire, or wrought for better fame.
DRYDEN.

POPE.

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