The Tin Trumpet, Or Heads and Tales, for the Wise and Waggish: To which are Added, Poetical Selections, 2 tomas

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Whittaker & Company, 1836 - 279 psl.
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162 psl. - That man is little to be envied, whose patriotism would not gain force upon the plain of Marathon, or whose piety would not grow • warmer among the ruins of lona.
193 psl. - Is lightened ; that serene and blessed mood In which the affections gently lead us on, Until the breath of this corporeal frame, And even the motion of our human blood Almost suspended, we are laid asleep In body, and become a living soul; While with an eye made quiet by the power Of harmony and the deep power of joy, We see into the life of things.
33 psl. - For this is the covenant that I will make with the house of Israel after those days, saith the Lord; I will put my laws into their mind, and write them in their hearts...
78 psl. - Who has not a thousand times seen snow fall on water? Who has not watched it with a new feeling from the time that he has read Burns...
159 psl. - Atheism leaves a man to sense, to philosophy, to natural piety, to laws, to reputation; all which may be guides to an outward moral virtue, though religion 'were not; but superstition dismounts all these, and erecteth an absolute monarchy in the minds of men.
33 psl. - For if there be first a willing mind, it is accepted according to that a man hath, and not according to that he hath not.
62 psl. - Every one of my writings has been furnished to me by a thousand different persons, a thousand different things : the...
49 psl. - ... nam neque quies gentium sine armis neque arma sine stipendiis neque stipendia sine tributis haberi queunt.
20 psl. - Then, Sir, you are not of opinion with some who imagine that certain men and certain women are made for each other; and that they cannot be happy if they miss their counterparts.
1 psl. - The effect and it! Come to my woman's breasts, And take my milk for gall, you murdering ministers, Wherever in your sightless substances You wait on nature's mischief! Come, thick night, And pall thee in the dunnest smoke of hell, That my keen knife see not the wound it makes, Nor heaven peep through the blanket of the dark, To cry'Hold, hold!

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