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Augustus bard bear beauty better Book bring character charm clear close comes common death delight doubt dread Epistle EPODE eyes fair father fear feel fire fool give gods hand happy head hear heart hills hold Horace Horace's hour Italy keep kind king known land less lines live look Męcenas master means miles mind nature never night o'er once pain passed plain play poem poet poor praise probably rich Roman Rome round Satire seems side slave soul speaks stand sure sweet tell Temple thee things thou thought TIRESIAS town true turn verse wealth Whilst wild wine wise wish write young
Page 78 - Happy the man, and happy he alone, He, who can call to-day his own: He who secure within, can say, To-morrow do thy worst, for I have lived to-day.
Page 53 - A shadow flits before me, Not thou, but like to thee; Ah Christ, that it were possible For one short hour to see The souls we loved, that they might tell us What and where they be.
Page 302 - Garden; the very women of the town; the watchmen, drunken scenes, rattles; life awake, if you awake, at all hours of the night; the impossibility of being dull in Fleet Street; the crowds, the very dirt and mud, the sun shining upon houses and pavements, the...
Page 77 - Give strong drink unto him that is ready to perish, and wine unto those that be of heavy hearts. Let him drink and forget his poverty and remember his misery no more.
Page 40 - A TROUBLE, not of clouds, or weeping rain, Nor of the setting sun's pathetic light Engendered, hangs o'er Eildon's triple height : Spirits of power, assembled there, complain For kindred power departing from their sight ; While Tweed, best pleased in chanting a blithe strain, Saddens his voice again, and yet again.
Page 74 - How often have I stole forth in the coldest night in January, and found him in the garden, stuck like a dripping statue! There would he kneel to me in the snow, and sneeze and cough so pathetically! he shivering with cold, and I with apprehension! and while the freezing blast numbed our joints, how warmly would he press me to pity his flame, and glow with mutual ardour! Ah, Julia, that was something like being in love!
Page 296 - Passages which to a boy are but rhetorical commonplaces, neither better nor worse than a hundred others which any clever writer might supply, which he gets by heart and thinks very fine, and imitates, as he thinks, successfully in his own flowing versification, at length come home to him when long years have passed and he has had experience of life, and pierce him as if he had never before known them with their sad earnestness and vivid exactness.