All Quotes

"Pictures, bright pictures, oh ! they are to me A world for thought to revel in. I love To give a history to every face, to think — As I thought with the painter — as I knew What his high communing had been."

"Ah, Woman has no look so sweet As that, when, half afraid to meet The look she loves, blushes betray All the suppressed glance would say."

"Sweet Hope ! every pleasant flower Suns itself in thy glad power ; Every sorrow comes to thee, Desart fount for Misery !"

"Thou shalt bid thy fair hands rove O'er thy soft lute's silver slumbers, Waking sounds; of song and love In their sweet Italian numbers."

"His pensive cheek upon his hand reclined, And anxious thoughts revolving in his mind."

"Let this and every other anxious thought At th’ entrance of my threshold be forgot."

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

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

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

"The whole division that to Mars pertains, All trades of death that deal in steel for gains, Were there; the butcher, armorer, and smith, Who forges sharpen’d fauchions, or the scythe."

"Their wildness lose, and, quitting nature’s part, Obey the rules and discipline of art."

"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."

"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."

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

"He, full of fraudful arts, This well-invented tale for truth imparts."

"Live then, thou great encourager of arts! Live ever in our thankful hearts."

"Unskill’d in schemes by planets to foreshow, I neither will nor can prognosticate To the young gaping heir his father’s fate."

"The spiteful stars have shed their venom down, And now the peaceful planets take their turn."

"Such sullen planets at my birth did shine, They threaten every fortune mixt with mine."

"Sorceries to raise th’ infernal pow’rs, And sigils framed in planetary hours."

"Would I had been disposer of thy stars, Thou shouldst have had thy wish, and died in wars."

"If but a mile she travel out of town, The planetary hour must first be known, And lucky moment, if her eye but akes, Or itches, its decumbiture she takes."

"And much more honest to be hired, and stand With auctionary hammer in thy hand; Provoking to give more, and knocking thrice For the old household stuff, or picture’s price."

"Noble Boyle, not less in nature seen Than his great brother read in states and men."

"Great Fletcher never treads in buskins here, Nor greater Jonson dares in socks appear."

"In easy dialogues is Fletcher’s praise: He moved the mind, but had not pow’r to raise."

"When did his muse from Fletcher scenes purloin, As thou whose Eth’ ridge dost transfuse to thine? But so transfused as oil and waters flow: His always floats above, thine sinks below."

"Ganfride, who couldst so well in rhyme complain The death of Richard, with an arrow slain."

"Homer, whose name shall live in epic song, While music numbers, or while verse has feet."

"Three poets, in three distant ages born, Greece, Italy, and England did adorn: The first in majesty of thought surpass’d, The next in gracefulness; in both the last. The force of nature could no further go: To make a third she join’d the other two."

"Horace, with sly insinuating grace, Laugh’d at his friend, and look’d him in the face; Would raise a blush where secret vice he found, And tickle while he gently probed the wound; With seeming innocence the crowd beguiled, But made the desperate passes when he smiled."

"Nor let false friends seduce thy mind to fame By arrogating Jonson’s hostile name; Let father Flecknoe fire thy mind with praise, And uncle Ogleby thy envy raise."

"Your Ben and Fletcher, in their first young flight, Did no Volpone, nor no Arbaces write; But hopp’d about, and short excursions made From bough to bough, as if they were afraid."

"Lucan, content with praise, may lie at ease In costly grots and marble palaces; But to poor Bassus what avails a name, To starve on compliments and empty fame?"

"Orestes’ bulky rage, Unsatisfied with margins closely writ, Foams o’er the covers, and not finish’d yet."

"Next Petrarch follow’d, and in him we see What rhyme, improved in all its height, can be; At best a pleasing sound, and sweet barbarity."

"Saint Andre’s feet ne’er kept more equal time, Not ev’n the feet of thy own Psyche’s rhyme; Though they in numbers as in sense excel, So just, so like tautology, they fell."

"Shadwell alone of all my sons is he Who stands confirm’d in full stupidity."

"The rest to some faint meaning make pretence, But Shadwell never deviates into sense."

"Some beams of wit on other souls may fall, Strike through, and make a lucid interval; But Shadwell’s genuine night admits no ray, His rising fogs prevail upon the day."

"Anger would indite Such woful stuff as I or Shadwell write."

"Shadwell till death true dulness would maintain; And, in his father’s right and realm’s defence, Ne’er would have peace with wit, nor truce with sense."

"But Shakspeare’s magic could not copied be; Within that circle none durst walk but he."

"The vain endurances of life, And they who most perform’d, and promised less, Ev’n Short and Hobbes, forsook th’ unequal strife."

"Whoe’er thou art, whose forward ears are bent On state affairs, to guide the government; Hear first what Socrates of old has said To the loved youth whom he at Athens bred."

"Exalted Socrates! divinely brave! Injured he fell, and dying he forgave; Too noble for revenge."

"That good man, who drank the pois’nous draught With mind serene, and could not wish to see His vile accuser drink as deep as he."

"All authors to their own defects are blind; Hadst thou but, Janus-like, a face behind, To see the people, what splay mouths they make, To mark their fingers pointed at thy back."

"The unhappy man who once has trail’d a pen Lives not to please himself, but other men; Is always drudging with his life and blood, Yet only eats and drinks what you think good."

"Such is the poet’s lot: what happier fate Does on the works of grave historians wait! More time they spend, in-greater toils engage: Their volumes swell beyond the thousandth page."