Monday, 14 December 2009
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Much could I add, — but see the boat at hand,
The tide retiring, calls me from the land:
Farewell! — When youth, and health, and fortune spent,
Thou fly'st for refuge to the wilds of Kent;
And tired like me with follies and with crimes,
In angry numbers warn'st succeeding times;
Then shall thy friend, nor thou refuse his aid,
Still foe to vice, forsake his Cambrian shade;
In virtue's cause once more exert his rage,
Thy satire point, and animate thy page.

... Samuel Johnson(London, lines 254–263)

Note: I notice that hand rhymes with land, spent with Kent. But it's boring. A mere telling of some kind of story - like a narrative prose perhaps. Could this be what they call a poetic prose?


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