The calamities & quarrels of authors: with some inquiries concerning their moral & literary characters, & memoirs for our literary history
Routledge, Warnes & Routledge, 1859 - 552 páginas
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The Calamities and Quarrels of Authors: With Some Inquiries Respecting Their ...
Isaac Disraeli,Benjamin Disraeli
Pré-visualização indisponível - 2014
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Página 318 - Damn with faint praise, assent with civil leer, And without sneering, teach the rest to sneer; Willing to wound, and yet afraid to strike, Just hint a fault and hesitate dislike...
Página 54 - But Appius reddens at each word you speak, And stares, tremendous, with a threatening eye, Like some fierce tyrant in old tapestry.
Página 474 - and " Every Man out of his Humour," usurped that dictatorship, in the Literary Republic, which he so sturdily and invariably maintained, though long and hardily disputed.
Página 59 - How fluent nonsense trickles from his tongue ! How sweet the periods, neither said, nor sung ! Still break the benches, Henley ! with thy strain, While Sherlock, Hare, and Gibson preach in vain.
Página 235 - Why, man, he doth bestride the narrow world, Like a Colossus ; and we petty men Walk under his huge legs, and peep about To find ourselves dishonourable graves.
Página 213 - I know that all the muses' heavenly lays, With toil of sprite which are so dearly bought, As idle sounds, of few or none are sought ; That there is nothing lighter than vain praise.
Página 207 - For what other reason have I spent my life in so unprofitable a study ? why am I grown old, in seeking so barren a reward as fame ? The same parts and application, which have made me a poet, might have raised me to any honours of the gown, which are often given to men of as little learning and less honesty than myself.
Página 486 - As thou thyself ; we envy not to see Thy friends with bays to crown thy poesy. No, here the gall lies ; — We, that know what stuff Thy very heart is made of, know the stalk On which thy learning grows, and can give life To thy, once dying, baseness ; yet must we Dance anticke on your paper — . But were thy warp'd soul put in a new mould, I'd wear thee as a jewel set in gold.