Boswell's Life of Johnson: Including Boswell's Journal of a Tour of the Hebrides, and Johnson's Diary of A Journey Into North Wales, Količina 4

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Stran 322 - Forbearing one another, and forgiving one another, if any man have a quarrel against any: even as Christ forgave you, so also do ye. And above all these things put on charity, which is the bond of perfectness.
Stran 459 - Ay, but to die, and go we know not where ; To lie in cold obstruction, and to rot ; This sensible warm motion to become A kneaded clod...
Stran 56 - After all this, it is surely superfluous to answer the question that has once been asked, Whether Pope was a poet, otherwise than by asking in return, If Pope be not a poet, where is poetry to be found?
Stran 468 - I am afraid, Sir, such a number of us may be oppressive to you.'—' No, Sir,' said Johnson, ' it is not so ; and I must be in a wretched state indeed when your company would not be a delight to me.
Stran 213 - Tis night, and the landscape is lovely no more; I mourn, but, ye woodlands, I mourn not for you; For morn is approaching, your charms to restore, Perfum'd with fresh fragrance, and glittering with dew, Nor yet for the ravage of winter I mourn; Kind Nature the embryo blossom will save.
Stran 459 - Canst thou not minister to a mind diseas'd ; Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow; Raze out the written troubles of the brain ; And with some sweet oblivious antidote Cleanse the stuffd bosom of that perilous stuff Which weighs upon the heart?
Stran 200 - Where other cares than those the Muse relates, And other shepherds dwell with other mates; By such examples taught, I paint the Cot, As Truth will paint it, and as Bards will not...
Stran 125 - We can do nothing without the blue stockings " ; and thus by degrees the title was established.
Stran 114 - A merrier man, Within the limit of becoming mirth, I never spent an hour's talk withal. His eve begets occasion for his wit ; For every object that the one doth catch, The other turns to a mirth-moving jest ; Which his fair tongue (Conceit's expositor...
Stran 475 - Wealth, my lad, was made to wander, Let it wander as it will; Call the jockey, call the pander, Bid them come and take their fill. When the bonny blade carouses, Pockets full, and spirits high — What are acres? What are houses? Only dirt, or wet or dry. Should the guardian friend or mother Tell the woes of wilful waste, Scorn their counsel, scorn their pother ;You can hang or drown at last ! On the 'Death of Mr.

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