My copper medals by the pound My copper lamps, at any rate, That were all worm-eaten, and full of canker holes. SPENSER. Rare are the buttons of a Roman's breeches, That touch'd the ruff that touch'd Queen Bess's chin. YOUNG: Love of Fame. ARCHITECTURE. Our fathers next, in architecture skill'd, SIR R. BLACKMORE. Silently as a dream the fabric rose, No sound of hammer or of saw was there. COWPER: Task. 41 Firm Doric pillars found the solid base, His son builds on, and never is content No hammers fell, no ponderous axes rung; HEBER: Palestine. Let my due feet never fail The hasty multitude MILTON. Admiring enter'd; and the work some praise, MILTON. Ecbatana her structure vast there shows, MILTON. Whene'er we view some well-proportion'd dome, 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, 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. 30 And arches widen, and long aisles ascend. POPE. The growing tow'rs like exhalations rise, POPE. 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. 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, What wonder if the kindly beams he shed, All arts and artists Theseus could command, POPE. |