human
Good Horace! No! My cheeks do blush for thine, As often as thou speakest so; where one true And nobly virtuous spirit for thy best part Loves thee, I wish one, ten; even from my heart! I make account, I put up as deep share In any good man's love, which thy worth earns, As thou thyself; we envy not to see Thy friends with bays to crown thy poesy. No, here the gall lies;--we, that know what stuff Thy very heart is made of, know the stalk On which thy learning grows, and can give life To thy one dying baseness; yet must we Dance anticks on your paper. But were thy warp'd soul put in a new mould, I'd wear thee as a jewel set in gold.
gpt
This play, says Lamb,
human
London Spy, gives us a most distasteful picture of the Compter in 1698-1700.
gpt
When we first entered, says Ward,