Written by
Anne Kingsmill Finch |
FOR He, that made, must new create us,
Ere Seneca, or Epictetus,
With all their serious Admonitions,
Can, for the Spleen, prove good Physicians.
The Heart's unruly Palpitation
Will not be laid by a Quotation;
Nor will the Spirits move the lighter
For the most celebrated Writer.
Sweats, Swoonings, and convulsive Motions
Will not be cur'd by Words, and Notions.
Then live, old Brown! with thy Chalybeats,
Which keep us from becoming Idiots.
At Tunbridge let us still be Drinking,
Though 'tis the Antipodes to Thinking:
Such Hurry, whilst the Spirit's flying,
Such Stupefaction, when 'tis dying;
Yet these, and not sententious Papers,
Must brighten Life, and cure the Vapours
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Written by
Omar Khayyam |
That vault of heaven, under which we reel, we might,
in thought, liken to a lantern. The universe is the lantern.
The sun represents the light, and we, like the
images with which the lantern is ornamented, dwell there
in stupefaction.
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Written by
Omar Khayyam |
There is not a night when my mind is not in a state of
stupefaction. There is not one when my breast is not
inundated with pearls that flow from my eyes. The disquiet
which possesses me keeps the bowl of my head from
filling itself with wine, can a bowl overturned ever be
filled?
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