The Poems of Sir Robert Aytoun

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A. & C. Black, 1844 - 154 pages
 

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Page 36 - If all that say they die, had died indeed, Sure long e're now the world had had an end. Besides, we need not love but if we please ; No destiny can force men's disposition; And how can any die of that disease, Whereof himself may be his own physician?
Page 37 - Are both extremes, and all extremes are vice, Yet have I been a lover by report. Yea, I have died for love as others do, But, praised be God, it was in such a sort, That I revived within an hour or two.
Page 36 - But not that passion which with fools' consent Above the reason bears imperious sway, Making their lifetime a perpetual lent, As if a man were born to fast and pray. No, that is not the humour I approve, As either yielding pleasure or promotion : I like a mild and lukewarm zeal in love, Although I do not like it in devotion ; For it...
Page xlii - English standard, and every word or phrase that varied in the least from that was condemned as barbarous ; whereas, if the two nations had continued distinct, each might have retained idioms and forms of speech peculiar to itself; and these rendered fashionable by the example of a court, and supported by the authority of writers of reputation, might have been...
Page xxix - he was acquainted with all the wits of his time in England," and that "he was a great acquaintance of Mr. Thomas Hobbes, of Malmesbury, who told me he made use of him (together with Ben Jonson) for an Aristarchus, when he drew up his epistle dedicatory for his translation of Thucydides.
Page 28 - Since, if my plaints serve not to approve The conquest of thy beauty, It comes not from defect of love, But from excess of duty. For, knowing that I sue to serve A saint of such perfection, As all desire, but none deserve, A place in her affection, I rather choose to want relief Than venture the revealing; Where glory recommends the grief, Despair distrusts the healing.
Page 130 - Thespis in Boeotia. He saw his image reflected in a fountain, and became enamoured of it, thinking it to be the nymph of the place. His fruitless attempts to approach this beautiful object so provoked him, that he grew desperate and killed himself. His blood was changed into a flower, which still bears his name. The nymphs raised a funeral pile to burn his body, according to Ovid, but they found nothing but a beautiful flower.
Page 46 - Tis usury, yea, worse than this, For self-idolatry it is. Then let her choice be what it will, Let constancy be thy revenge ; If thou retribute good for ill, Both grief and shame shall check her change, Thus...
Page 36 - The sweetest folly in the world is love : But not that passion which, with fools' consent. Above the reason bears imperious sway, Making their life-time a perpetual Lent, As if a man were born to fast and pray. No, that is not the humour I approve, As either yielding...
Page 45 - Can thou take virtue's name in thee? No; thou in this her captive was, And made thee ready by her glass ; Example led revenge astray, When true love should have kept the way. True love has no reflecting end, The object good sets it at rest, And noble breasts will freely lend Without expecting interest. 'Tis merchants...

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