Albert Gray Quotes

How small a part of time they share, That are so wondrous sweet and fair!

Thrice happy is that humble pair, Beneath the level of all care! Over whose heads those arrows fly, Of sad distrust and jealousy.

A narrow compass! and yet there Dwelt all that `s good, and all that `s fair; Give me but what this riband bound, Take all the rest the sun goes round.

The chain that`s fixed to the throne of Jove, On which the fabric of our world depends, One link dissolved, the whole creation ends.

His love at once and dread instruct our thought; As man He suffer`d and as God He taught.

The seas are quiet when the winds give o`er; So calm are we when passions are no more!

All human things Of dearest value hang on slender strings.

The fear of Hell, or aiming to be blest, Savors too much of private interest. This moved not Moses, nor the zealous Paul, Who for their friends abandoned soul and all.

The fear of hell, or aiming to be blest, savors too much of private interest.

Others may use the ocean as their road; Only the English make it their abode.

Vexed sailors cursed the rain, for which poor shepherds prayed in vain.

Stronger by weakness, wiser men become.

Leaving the old, both worlds at once they view, That stand upon the threshold of the new.

Poets lose half the praise they should have got, Could it be known what they discreetly blot.

The lark that shuns on lofty boughs to build, Her humble nest, lies silent in the field.

Tea does our fancy aid, Repress those vapours which the head invade, And keeps that palace of the soul serene.

Circle are praised, not that abound, In largeness, but the exactly round.

To love is to believe, to hope, to know; Tis an essay, a taste of Heaven below!

Illustrious acts high raptures do infuse, And every conqueror creates a muse.

Poets that lasting marble seek Must come in Latin or in Greek.

Could we forbear dispute, and practise love, We should agree as angels do above.

That eagle`s fate and mine are one, Which, on the shaft that made him die, Espied a feather of his own, Wherewith he wont to soar so high.

Give us enough but with a sparing hand.

And as pale sickness does invade, Your frailer part, the breaches made, In that fair lodging still more clear, Make the bright guest, your soul, appear.

Go, lovely rose! Tell her that wastes her time and me That now she knows, When I resemble her to thee, How sweet and fair she seems to be.

So must the writer, whose productions should Take with the vulgar, be of vulgar mould.