The beauties of the British poets, with a few introductory observations . n herd,Or race of youthful and unhandled mad bounds, bellowing, and neighing loud,Which is the hot condition of their blood ;If they but hear perchance a trumpet sound,Or any air of music touch their ears,You shall perceive them make a mutual stand,Their savage eyes turnd to a modest the sweet power of music: therefore the poetDid feign that Orpheus drew trees, stones, and floods ;Since nought so stockish, hard, and full of rage,But music for the time doth change his man that hath not mu
The beauties of the British poets, with a few introductory observations . n herd,Or race of youthful and unhandled mad bounds, bellowing, and neighing loud,Which is the hot condition of their blood ;If they but hear perchance a trumpet sound,Or any air of music touch their ears,You shall perceive them make a mutual stand,Their savage eyes turnd to a modest the sweet power of music: therefore the poetDid feign that Orpheus drew trees, stones, and floods ;Since nought so stockish, hard, and full of rage,But music for the time doth change his man that hath not music in himself,Nor is not moved with concord of sweet sounds,Is fit for treasons, stratagems, and spoils ;The motions of his spirit are dull as night,And his affections dark as Erebus :Let no such man be trusted. If music be the food of love, play me excess of it; that, surfeiting,The appetite may sicken, and so strain again ;—it had a dying fall:O! it came oer my ear like the sweet south,That breathes upon a bank of violets,Stealing and giving odour. Painted bv He EG. r^ ^ I - ? ^ . ?? * ^ . -* n r% 4~ 5* \. ^m* ^T^ SHAKESPEARE. 49 HUMAN LITE. Reason thus with life,—If I do lose thee, I do lose a thingThat none but fools would keep: a breath thou art,(Servile to all the skiey influences,)That do this habitation, where thou keepst,Hourly afflict: merely, thou art Deaths fool;For him thou labourst by thy flight to shun,Yet runst toward him still: thou art by no means valiant;For thou dost fear the soft and tender forkOf a poor worm ; thy best of rest is that thou oft provokst; yet grossly fearstThy death, which is no more. Thourt not thyself;For thou existst on many a thousand grainsThat issue out of dust: happy thou art not;For what thou hast not, still thou strivst to get;And what thou hast, forgetst; thou art not certain;For thy complexion shifts to strange the moon : if thou art rich, thou art poor;For, like an ass, whose back wit
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Keywords: ., bookauthorwordsworthcollection, bookce, booksubjectenglishpoetry
