The British Prose Writers: Cowley's essays. Shenstone's essays

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J. Sharpe, 1821
 

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Stran 121 - t depends Not on the number, but the choice of friends. Books should, not business, entertain the light, And sleep, as undisturbed as death, the night. My house a cottage, more Than palace, and should fitting be For all my use, no luxury. My garden painted o'er With Nature's hand, not Art's ; and pleasures yield, Horace might envy in his Sabine field.
Stran 101 - And they said, Go to, let us build us a city and a tower, whose top may reach unto heaven; and let us make us a name, lest we be scattered abroad upon the face of the whole earth.
Stran 28 - Hail, old patrician trees, so great and good! Hail, ye plebeian under-wood ! Where the poetic birds rejoice, And for their quiet nests and plenteous food Pay, with their grateful voice. Hail, the poor Muses...
Stran 116 - Begin, be bold, and venture to be wise : He who defers this work from day to day, Does on a river's bank expecting stay Till the whole stream which stopp'd him should be gone, Which runs, and, as it runs, for ever will run on.
Stran 121 - Even when I was a very young Boy at School, instead of running about on Holidays and playing with my fellows, I was wont to steal from them, and walk into the fields, either alone with a Book, or with some one Companion, if I could find any of the same temper.
Stran 105 - I thought, when I went first to dwell in the country, that without doubt I should have met there with the simplicity of the old poetical golden age ; I thought to have found no inhabitants there, but such as the shepherds of Sir Philip Sidney in Arcadia, or of Monsieur d'Urfe...
Stran 126 - Nothing shall separate me from a mistress which I have loved so long, and have now at last married, though she neither has brought me a rich portion, nor lived yet so quietly with me as I hoped from her.
Stran 66 - Behold now, this city is near to flee unto, and it is a little one: Oh, let me escape thither, (is it not a little one?) and my soul shall live.
Stran 29 - Here let me careless and unthoughtful lying, Hear the soft winds above me flying With all their wanton boughs dispute, And the more tuneful birds to both replying, Nor be myself too mute.

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