The poetical works of John Milton: ed. with memoir, intr. [&c.] by D. Masson, Том 3

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Страница 144 - Nothing is here for tears, nothing to wail Or knock the breast ; no weakness, no contempt, Dispraise, or blame ; nothing but well and fair, And what may quiet us in a death so noble.
Страница 6 - OF man's first disobedience, and the fruit Of that forbidden tree, whose mortal taste Brought death into the world, and all our woe, With loss of Eden, till one greater Man Restore us, and regain the blissful seat, Sing, heavenly Muse...
Страница 1 - I modestly but freely told him ; and after some further discourse about it, I pleasantly said to him, " Thou hast said much here of Paradise Lost, but what hast thou to say of Paradise Found?
Страница 179 - Farewell happy fields, Where joy for ever dwells : Hail horrors, hail Infernal world, and thou profoundest Hell, Receive thy new possessor ; one who brings A mind not to be chang'd by place or time. The mind is its own place, and in itself Can make a Heav'n of Hell, a Hell of Heav'n.
Страница 95 - A little onward lend thy guiding hand To these dark steps, a little further on; For yonder bank hath choice of sun or shade; There I am wont to sit, when any chance Relieves me from my task of servile toil, Daily...
Страница 97 - O loss of sight, of thee I most complain! Blind among enemies, O worse than chains, Dungeon, or beggary, or decrepit age! Light, the prime work of God, to me...
Страница 193 - Rather proclaim it, Westmoreland, through my host, That he which hath no stomach to this fight, Let him depart; his passport shall be made And crowns for convoy put into his purse: We would not die in that man's company That fears his fellowship to die with us. This day is...
Страница 80 - Then to the well-trod stage anon If Jonson's learned sock be on, Or sweetest Shakespeare, Fancy's child, Warble his native wood-notes wild.
Страница 116 - Out, out, hyaena ! these are thy wonted arts, And arts of every woman false like thee...
Страница 241 - The applause, delight, the wonder of our stage! My Shakespeare, rise! I will not lodge thee by Chaucer, or Spenser, or bid Beaumont lie A little further, to make thee a room: Thou art a monument without a tomb, And art alive still while thy book doth live And we have wits to read and praise to give.

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