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With length of labours, and with, toils of war?
After so many funerals of thy own,
Art thou restored to thy declining town?
But say, what wounds are these? what new disgrace
Deforms the manly features of thy face?"
Dryden, xi. 369.
284 --Like a thin smoke. Virgil, Georg. iv. 72.
"In vain I reach my feeble hands to join
In sweet embraces--ah! no longer thine!
She said, and from his eyes the fleeting fair
Retired, like subtle smoke dissolved in air."
Dryden.
285 So Milton:--
"So eagerly the fiend
O'er bog, o'er steep, through strait, rough, dense, or rare,
With head, hands, wings, or feet pursues his way,
And swims, or sinks, or wades, or creeps, or flies."
"Paradise Lost," ii. 948.
972
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