The Works of John Dryden: Dramatic works

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W. Paterson, 1883
 

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Page 244 - Keeps honour bright: to have done, is to hang Quite out of fashion, like a rusty mail In monumental mockery. Take the instant way;1 For honour travels in a strait so narrow, Where one but goes abreast: keep, then, the path; For emulation hath a thousand sons, That one by one pursue: if you give way, Or hedge aside from the direct forthright, Like to an...
Page 320 - Too subtle-potent, tun'd too sharp in sweetness, For the capacity of my ruder powers: I fear it much; and I do fear besides, That I shall lose distinction in my joys...
Page 244 - For honour travels in a strait so narrow, Where one but goes abreast: keep then the path; For emulation hath a thousand sons That one by one pursue: if you give way, Or hedge aside from the direct forthright, Like to an enter'd tide, they all rush by, And leave you hindmost...
Page 414 - To crystallize the Baltic Ocean; To glaze the lakes, to bridle up the floods, And periwig with snow the bald-pate woods.
Page 200 - ... most long and terrible ; So, when we think fate hovers o'er our heads, Our apprehensions shoot beyond all bounds ; Owls, ravens, crickets seem the watch of death ; Nature's worst vermin scare her godlike sons ; Echoes, the very leavings of a voice, Grow babbling ghosts, and call us to our graves; Each mole-hill thought swells to a huge Olympus; While we fantastic dreamers heave and puff, And sweat with an imagination's weight ; As if, like Atlas, with these mortal shoulders We could sustain the...
Page 200 - Tis poetical and pretty. This is it : When the sun sets, shadows that showed at noon But small, appear most long and terrible: So when we think fate hovers o'er our heads, Our apprehensions shoot beyond all bounds:' Owls, ravens, crickets, seem the watch of death...
Page 205 - E'en wondered at because he dropt no sooner; Fate seemed to wind him up for fourscore years; Yet freshly ran he on ten winters more, Till, like a clock worn out with eating Time, The wheels of weary life at last stood still.
Page 287 - As in a theatre, the eyes of men, After a well-graced actor leaves the stage, Are idly bent on him that enters next, Thinking his prattle to be tedious...
Page 287 - God save him !" No joyful tongue gave him his welcome home : But dust was thrown upon his sacred head ; Which with such gentle sorrow he shook off, — His face still combating with tears and smiles, The badges of his grief and patience, — That had not God, for some strong purpose, steel'd The hearts of men, they must perforce have melted, And barbarism itself have pitied him.
Page 412 - All I can say for those passages, which are I hope not many, is, that I knew they were bad enough to please, even when I writ them: But I repent of them amongst my Sins...

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