The Works of the English Poets, from Chaucer to Cowper;: Pope's Homer's Iliad and Odyssey, Dryden's Virgil and Juvenal, Pitt's Virgil's Aeneid and Vida's Art of Poetry, Francis's Horace

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Samuel Johnson
J. Johnson; J. Nichols and son; R. Baldwin; F. and C. Rivington; W. Otridge and Son; Leigh and Sotheby; R. Faulder and Son; G. Nicol and Son; T. Payne; G. Robinson; Wilkie and Robinson; C. Davies; T. Egerton; Scatcherd and Letterman; J. Walker; Vernor, Hood, and Sharpe; R. Lea; J. Nunn; Lackington, Allen, and Company; J. Stockdale; Cuthell and Martin; Clarke and Sons; J. White and Company; Longman, Hurst, Rees, and Orme; Cadell and Davies; J. Barker; John Richardson; J.M. Richardson; J. Carpenter; B. Crosby; E. Jeffery; J. Murray; W. Miller; J. and A. Arch; Black, Parry, and Kingsbury; J. Booker; S. Bagster; J. Harding; J. Mackinlay; J. Hatchard; R.H. Evans; Matthews and Leigh; J. Mawman; J. Booth; J. Asperne; P. and W. Wynne; and W. Grace, Deighton and Son at Cambridge; and Wilson and Son at York, 1810 - English poetry

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Page 355 - I trade both with the living and the dead, for the enrichment of our native language. We have enough in England to supply our necessity; but, if we will have things of magnificence and splendour, we must get them by commerce.
Page 152 - For Hector's sake these walls he bids thee leave, And bear what stern Achilles may receive: Alone, for so he wills: no Trojan near, Except, to place the dead with decent care, Some aged herald, who with gentle hand May the slow mules and funeral car command.
Page 82 - Could all our care elude the gloomy grave, Which claims no less the fearful than the brave, For lust of fame I should not vainly dare In fighting fields, nor urge thy soul to war. But since, alas! ignoble age must come, Disease, and death's inexorable doom; The life which others pay, let us bestow, And give to Fame what we to Nature owe; Brave tho' we fall, and honour'd if we live, Or let us glory gain, or glory give!
Page 385 - When death has once dissolv'd her mortal frame; Shall smile to see the traitor vainly weep: Her angry ghost, arising from the deep, Shall haunt thee waking, and disturb thy sleep. At least my shade thy punishment shall know, And Fame shall spread the pleasing news below.
Page 49 - Behold the mighty Hector's wife! Some haughty Greek, who lives thy tears to see, Embitters all thy woes by naming me. The thoughts of glory past, and present shame A thousand griefs shall waken at the name. May I lie cold before that dreadful day, Press'd with a load of monumental clay! Thy Hector, wrapt in everlasting sleep, Shall neither hear thee sigh, nor see thee weep.
Page 404 - Say, happy souls ! divine Musaeus ! say, Where lives Anchises, and where lies our way To find the hero, for whose only sake We sought the dark abodes, and cross'd the bitter lake." To this the sacred poet thus replied : " In no fix'd place the happy souls reside, In groves we live, and lie on mossy beds, By crystal streams, that murmur through the meads : But pass yon easy hill, and thence descend ; The path conducts you to your journey's end.
Page 157 - And there had sigh'd and sorrow'd out the day; But godlike Priam from the chariot rose: 'Forbear (he cried) this violence of woes; First to the palace let the car proceed, Then pour your boundless sorrows o'er the dead.
Page 352 - ... of two pounds per annum in Parnassus, and therefore are not privileged to poll. Their authors are of the same level, fit to represent them on a mountebank's stage, or to be masters of the ceremonies in a beargarden : yet these are they who have the most admirers. But it often happens, to their mortification, that as their readers improve their stock of sense, (as they may by reading better books, and by conversation with men of judgment) they soon forsake them.
Page 46 - Like leaves on trees the race of man is found, Now green in youth, now withering on the ground; Another race the following spring supplies; They fall successive, and successive rise: So generations in their course decay; So flourish these, when those are pass'd away.
Page 368 - Then with their sharpen'd fangs their limbs and bodies grind. The wretched father, running to their aid With pious haste, but vain, they next invade ; Twice round his waist their winding volumes roll'd ; And twice about his gasping throat they fold. The priest thus doubly choked — their crests divide, And towering o'er his head in triumph ride. With both his hands he labours at the knots ; His holy fillets the blue venom blots ; His roaring fills the flitting air around.

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