Hands, that the rod of empire might have swayed, / Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre. |
He gave to misery (all he had) a tear. |
He passed the flaming bounds of space and time: / The living throne, the sapphire-blaze, / Where angels tremble while they gaze, / He saw; but blasted with excess of light, / Closed his eyes in endless night. |
I shall be but a shrimp of an author. |
If the best man's faults were written on his forehead, he would draw his hat over his eyes. |
In gallant trim the gilded vessel goes, / Youth on the prow, and Pleasure at the helm; / Regardless of the sweeping whirlwind's sway, / That, hushed in grim repose, expects his evening prey. |
Let not ambition mock their useful toil, / Their homely joys and destiny obscure; / Nor grandeur hear, with a disdainful smile, / The short and simple annals of the poor. |
Mark and I get pretty competitive sometimes. But I like to just get the ball to my receivers and let them make the plays. I trust them. |
Not all that tempts your wand'ring eyes / And heedless hearts, is lawful prize; / Nor all that glisters, gold. |
On some fond breast the parting soul relies,/ Some pious drops the closing eye requires; / E'en from the tomb the voice of Nature cries, / E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires. |
Owls would have hooted in St Peter's choir,/ And foxes stunk and littered in St Paul's. |
Poetry is thoughts that breathe, and words that burn. |
Poetry is thoughts that breathe, and words that burn. |
Ruin seize thee, ruthless King! / Confusion on thy banners wait; / Though fanned by Conquest's crimson wing, / They mock the air with idle state. |
Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower, / The moping owl does to the moon complain. |