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＞＞＞— Mum, must I finish my homework first? — No, you _______...
— Mum, must I finish my homework first? — No, you _______.
A. can'tB. mustn't C. couldn't D. don't have to.
题型：单选题难度：中档来源：期中题
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据魔方格专家权威分析，试题“— Mum, must I finish my homework first? — No, you _______...”主要考查你对&&一般疑问句&&等考点的理解。关于这些考点的“档案”如下：
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一般疑问句
一般疑问句：是疑问句的一种。通常用yes，no来回答的疑问句叫做一般疑问句。口语中若无特殊含义，句末用升调。 其结构是：系动词be/助动词/情态动词＋主语＋其他成分？　 通常回答为： 　　 肯定：Yes+主语+提问的助动词 　　 否定：No+主语+提问的助动词+not&例如： Are you from Japan?&& Yes, I am.／No, I'm not. Do you live near your school?　Yes, I do.／No, I don't.&Can you speak French? 　Yes, I can.／No, I can't. 一般疑问句的特性：1．将陈述句变为一般疑问句时，如句中有be 动词（am/ is/ are）时，可直接将它们提至主语前。如主语为第一人称，应将其改为第二人称。如：I'm in Class 2Grade 1． →Are you in Class 2Grade 1﹖We're watching TV． →Are you watching TV﹖2．陈述句中有情态动词（can、may、must …）时，也可直接将它们提至主语前，即可成为一般疑问句。如：He can swim now． →Can he swim now﹖The children may come with us． → May the children come with us﹖3．陈述句中只有一个实义动词作谓语且其时态为一般现在时，变为一般疑问句时要在句首加do或does主语后的实义动词用原形。如：I like these animals． →Do you like these animals﹖She wants to go to the movies． → Does she want to go to the movies﹖4．一般疑问句一般读升调(↑)5．一般疑问句有时不用yes或 no 回答。如：Are they in town now﹖I think so.May I sit here﹖Certainly．Does he like soccer﹖Sorry I don't know．6. 一般疑问句的第一单词总是虚词,读的时候要读轻声。陈述句变为一般疑问句技巧：根据一般疑问句不同的家族，可以用不同的方法将陈述句变为相应的一般疑问句。1、第一家族：含be动词或情态动词的句子秘诀：一调二改三问号一调：即把句中的be或情态动词调到主语前；二改：改换主语称谓，即将句中的主语I\my \mines\we\our\ours等。第一人称分别改为相应的第二人称you\your\ yours等；三问号：句末的句号改为问号。如：Eg. I am an English teacher.&&& →&&& Are you an English teacher?Eg. We can speak English fluently.&& →&&& Can you speak English fluently?2、第二家族：含行为动词（或称为实义动词）的句子秘诀：一加二改三问号一加：即在句首加助动词Do或Does；二改：1、把谓语动词改为原形；2、改换主语称谓（同第一家组）；三问号：句末的句号改为问号。Eg. We read English every morning. → Do you read English every morning?Eg. Tom’s father listens to English on the radio every evening. →Does Tom’s father listen to English on the radio every evening?特别注意：对于第二家族一定要注意动词的还原，因为时态与数的变化已经体现在助动词上了。3、加强记忆口诀：肯变一，并不难，can 或be提在前；谓语若为行为动，do 或does句首用。
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108362228716156511147606106339252207From Wikiquote
For the Lord Chancellor, see .
Knowledge is proud that he
Wisdom is humble that he knows no more.
) was an English poet and hymnodist.
I believe no man was ever scolded out of his sins.
Absence from whom we love is worse than death,
And frustrate hope severer than despair.
"Hope, like the short-lived ray that gleams awhile", line 35.
But oars alone can ne'er prevail
The breath of Heaven must swell the sail,
Or all the toil is lost.
"Human Frailty", line 21 (1779).
Reasoning at every step he treads,
Man yet mistakes his way,
While meaner things, whom instinct leads,
Are rarely known to stray.
"The Doves", line 1. (1780).
Fate steals along with silent tread,
Found oftenest in what least we dread,
Frowns in the storm with angry brow,
But in the sunshine strikes the blow.
"A Fable" (or "The Raven"), line 36.
True Charity, a plant divinely nurs'd.
"Charity", line 573. (1781).
"Regions Caesar never knew
Thy posterity shall sway;
Where his eagles never flew,
None invincible as they."
Such the bard's prophetic words, Pregnant with celestial fire, Bending as he swept the chords Of his sweet but awful lyre.
"Boadicea" (1782).
Sweet stream that winds through yonder glade,
Apt emblem of a virtuous maid
Silent and chaste she steals along,
Far from the world's gay busy throng:
With gentle yet prevailing force,
Intent upon
Graceful and useful all she does,
Blessing and blest where'
Pure-bosom'd as that watery glass,
And Heaven reflected in her face.
"To a Young Lady" (1782).
Candid, and generous, and just,
Boys care but little whom they trust,
An error soon corrected—
For who but learns in riper years
That man, when smoothest he appears
Is most to be suspected?
"Friendship", line 19 (1782).
Thus neither the praise nor the blame is our own.
"From a Letter to the Rev. Mr. Newton", line 21. (1782).
I believe no man was ever scolded out of his sins.
Letter to , (17 June 1783).
An honest man, close-buttoned to the chin,
Broadcloth without, and a warm heart within.
"Epistle to Joseph Hill", line 62 (1785).
Shine by the side of every path we tread
With such a luster, he that runs may read.
"Tirocinium", line 79 (1785).
Toll for the brave —
The brave!
All sunk beneath the wave,
Fast by their native shore!
"On the Loss of the Royal George", st. 1 (1791).
And still to love, though prest with ill,
In wintry age to feel no chill,
With me is to be lovely still,
"To Mary", st. 11 (1791).
I will venture to assert, that a just translation of any ancient poet in rhyme is impossible. No human ingenuity can be equal to the task of closing every couplet with sounds homotonous, expressing at the same time the full sense, and only the full sense of his original.
The Iliad of Homer: translated into English blank verse (1791), "Preface".
Visits are insatiable devourers of time, and fit only for those who, if they did not that, would do nothing.
Letter to the Rev. John Johnson, (29 September1793).
Beware of desp'rate steps! The darkest day
(Live till tomorrow) will have passed away.
"The Needless Alarm, Moral" (1794).
Misses! the tale that I relate
This lesson seems to carry —
Choose not alone a proper mate,
But proper time to marry.
"Pairing Time Anticipated, Moral" (c. 1794).
Misery still delights to trace
Its semblance in another's case.
"The Castaway" (1799).
No voice divine the storm allay'd,
When, snatch'd from all effectual aid,
We perish'd,
But I beneath a rougher sea,
And whelmed in deeper gulphs than he.
"The Castaway" (1799).
Oh! for a closer walk with God,
A calm and heav'
A light to shine upon the road
That leads me to the Lamb!
No. 1, "Walking With God".
What peaceful hours I once enjoyed!
How sweet their memory still!
But they have left an aching void
The world can never fill.
No. 1, "Walking With God"
And Satan trembles when he sees
The weakest saint upon his knees.
No. 29, "Exhortation to Prayer".
God moves in a mysterious way,
He plants his footsteps in the sea,
And rides upon the storm.
The opening statement is often paraphrased: God moves in mysterious ways his wonders to perform.
No. 35, "Light Shining out of Darkness".
Behind a frowning providence
He hides a smiling face.
No. 35, "Light Shining out of Darkness".
Deep in unfathomable mines
Of never failing skill,
He treasures up his bright designs,
And works his sovereign will.
No. 35, "Light Shining out of Darkness".
His purposes will ripen fast,
The bud may have a bitter taste,
But sweet will be the flower.
No. 35, "Light Shining out of Darkness".
Blind unbelief is sure to err,
God is his own interpreter,
And he will make it plain.
No. 35, "Light Shining out of Darkness".
There is a fountain fill'd with blood
Drawn from Emmanuel'
And sinners, plung'd beneath that flood,
Lose all their guilty stains.
No. 79, "Praise for the Fountain Opened".
I play with syllables and sport in song
From:First of the Moral Satires
Glory, built
On selfish principles, is shame and guilt.
Is base in kind, and born to be a slave.
As if the world and they were hand and glove.
Thus happiness depends, as Nature shows,
Less on exterior things than most suppose.
Freedom has a thousand charms to show,
That slaves, howe'er contented, never know.
Manner is all in all, whate'er is writ,
The substitute for genius, sense, and wit.
Ages elapsed ere Homer's lamp appear'd,
And ages ere the Mantuan swan was heard:
To carry nature lengths unknown before,
To give a Milton birth, ask'd ages more.
Elegant as simplicity, and warm
As ecstasy.
Low ambition and the thirst of praise.
Made poetry a mere mechanic art.
Nature, exerting an unwearied power,
Forms, opens, and gives s
Spreads the fresh verdure of the field, and leads
The dancing Naiads through the dewy meads.
Lights of the world, and stars of human race.
Remorse, the fatal egg by Pleasure laid.
How much a dunce that has been sent to roam
Excels a dunce that has been kept at home!
No wild enthusiast ever yet could rest,
Till half mankind were like himself possess'd.
'Tis hard if all is false that I advance,
A fool must now and then be right by chance.
He would not, with a peremptory tone,
Assert the nose upon his face his own.
A moral, sensible, and well-bred man
Will not affront me, and no other can.
Pernicious weed! whose scent the fair annoys,
Unfriendly to society's chief joys,
Thy worst effect is banishing for hours
The sex whose presence civilizes ours.
I cannot talk with civet in the room,
A fine puss-gentleman that's all perfume.
A fool with judges, amongst fools a judge.
His wit invites you by his looks to come,
But when you knock it never is at home.
I pity bashful men, who feel the pain
Of fancied scorn and undeserved disdain,
And bear the marks upon a blushing face,
Of needless shame, and self-impos'd disgrace.
Our wasted oil unprofitably burns,
Like hidden lamps in old sepulchral urns.
That good diffused may more abundant grow.
But that disease when soberly defined
Is the false fire of an o'erheated mind.
Line 667; of fanaticism.
But Conversation, choose what theme we may,
And chiefly when religion leads the way,
Should flow, like waters after summer show'rs,
Not as if raised by mere mechanic powers.
A business with an income at its heels
Furnishes always oil for its own wheels.
Absence of occupation is not rest,
A mind quite vacant is a mind distressed.
An idler is a watch t
As useless when it goes as when it stands.
Built God a church, and laugh'd his word to scorn.
Philologists, who chase
A panting syllable through time and space,
Start it at home, and hunt it in the dark
To Gaul, to Greece, and into Noah's ark.
I praise the Frenchman [Voltaire], his remark was shrewd —
How sweet, how passing sweet, is solitude!
But grant me still a friend in my retreat
Whom I may whisper — solitude is sweet.
O solitude! where are the charms
That sages have seen in thy face?
Better dwell in the midst of alarms
Than reign in this horrible place.
Society friendship and love
Divinely bestow'd upon man,
O had I the wings of a dove
How soon I would taste you again!
This was Cowper's tribute to
the actual man whose shipwrecked existence upon an island inspired
to write Robinson Crusoe.
I am monarch of all I survey,
My right ther
From the center all round to the sea
I am lord of the fowl and the brute.
O solitude! where are the charms
That sages have seen in thy face?
Better dwell in the midst of alarms
Than reign in this horrible place.
I am out of humanity's reach.
I must finish my journey alone,
Never hear the s
I start at the sound of my own.
Society friendship and love
Divinely bestow'd upon man,
O had I the wings of a dove
How soon I would taste you again!
Religion! what treasure untold
Resides in that heavenly word!
My friends, do they now and then send
A wish or a thought after me?
O tell me I yet have a friend,
Though a friend I am never to see.
There is mercy in every place,
And mercy, encouraging thought!
Gives even affliction a grace
And reconciles man to his lot.
Though on pleasure she was bent,
She had a frugal mind.
The dogs did bark, the children screamed,
And every soul cried out, "Well done!"
As loud as he could bawl.
A hat not much the worse for wear.
Now let us sing — Long live the king,
And Gilpin,
And, when he next doth ride abroad,
May I be there to see!
United yet divided, twain at once:
So sit two kings of Brentford on one throne.
Nor rural sights alone, but rural sounds,
Exhilarate the spirit, and restore
The tone of languid nature.
The earth was made so various, that the mind
Of desultory man, studious of change
And pleased with novelty, might be indulged.
Doing good,
Disinterested good, is not our trade.
God made the country, and man made the town.
Oh for a lodge in some vast wilderness,
Some boundless contiguity of shade,
Where rumor of oppression and deceit,
Of unsuccessful or successful war,
Might never reach me more.
Mountains interposed
Make enemies of nations, who had else
Like kindred drops, been mingled into one.
I would not have a slave to till my ground,
To carry me, to fan me while I sleep
And tremble when I wake, for all the wealth
That sinews bought and sold have ever earn'd.
Slaves cannot breathe in E if their lungs
Receive our air, that moment they are free!
They touch our country, and their shackles fall.
Fast-anchor'd isle.
England, with all thy faults, I love thee still—
My country! and, while yet a nook is left
Where English minds and manners may be found,
Shall be constrained to love thee.
Presume to lay their hand upon the ark
Of her magnificent and awful cause.
Praise enough
To fill the ambition of a private man,
That Chatham's language was his mother tongue.
There is a pleasure in poetic pains
Which only poets know.
Transforms old print
To zigzag manuscript, and cheats the eyes
Of gallery critics by a thousand arts.
Reading what they never wrote,
Just fifteen minutes, huddle up their work,
And with a well-bred whisper close the scene.
Whoe'er was edified, themselves were not.
O Popular Applause! what heart of man
Is proof against thy sweet seducing charms?
Variety's the very spice of life,
That gives it all its flavour.
Variety 's the very spice of life.
She that asks
Her dear five hundred friends.
Not yet by time completely silvered o'er,
Bespoke him past the bounds of freakish youth,
But strong for service still, and unimpaired.
Domestic happiness, thou only bliss
Of Paradise that has survived the fall!
I was a stricken deer that left the herd
Long since.
And still they dream that they
And still are disappointed.
Great contest follows, and much learned dust
Inv each claiming truth,
And truth disclaiming both.
From reveries so airy, from the toil
Of dropping buckets into empty wells,
And growing old in drawing nothing up.
Riches have wings, and grandeur is a dream.
Detested sport,
That owes its pleasures to another's pain.
Of fox-hunting.
How various his employments whom the world
Calls idle, and who justly in return
Esteems that busy world an idler too!
Who loves a garden loves a greenhouse too.
So manifold, all pleasing in their kind,
All healthful, are the employs of rural life,
Reiterated as the wheel of time,
R still ending, and beginning still.
I burn to set the imprison'd wranglers free,
And give them voice and utterance once again.
Now stir the fire, and close the shutters fast,
Let fall the curtains, wheel the sofa round,
And while the bubbling and loud-hissing urn
Throws up a steamy column, and the cups
That cheer but not inebriate wait on each,
So let us welcome peaceful evening in.
Which not even critics criticise.
What is it but a map of busy life,
Its fluctuations, and its vast concerns?
And Katerfelto, with his hair on end
At his own wonders, wondering for his bread.
'T is pleasant, through the loopholes of retreat,
To peep at such a world,—to see the stir
Of the great Babel, and not feel the crowd.
While fancy, like the finger of a clock,
Runs the great circuit, and is still at home.
O Winter, ruler of the inverted year!
With spots quadrangular of diamond form,
Ensanguined hearts, clubs typical of strife,
And spades, the emblems of untimely graves.
In indolent vacuity of thought.
It seems the part of wisdom.
All learned, and all drunk!
Gloriously drunk, obey the important call.
Those golden times
And those Arcadian scenes that Maro sings,
And Sidney, warbler of poetic prose.
The Frenchman's darling.
Some must be great. Great offices will have
Great talents. And God gives to every man
The virtue, temper, understanding, taste,
That lifts him into life, and lets him fall
Just in the niche he was ordain'd to fill.
Silently as a dream the fabric rose —
No sound of hammer or of saw was there.
But war's a game, which, were their subjects wise,
Kings would not play at.
The beggarly last doit.
As dreadful as the Manichean god,
Adored through fear, strong only to destroy.
The still small voice is wanted.
He is the freeman whom the truth makes free.
With filial confidence inspired,
Can lift to Heaven an unpresumptuous eye,
And smiling say, My Father made them all!
Acquaint thyself with God, if thou would'st taste
His works. Admitted once to his embrace,
Thou shalt perceive that thou was blind before:
Thine eye and thine heart
Made pure shall relish with divine delight
Till then unfelt, what hands divine have wrought.
Give what Thou canst, without T
And with Thee rich, take what Thou wilt away.
There is in souls a
And as the mind is pitched the ear is pleased
With melting airs or martial, brisk, or grave:
Some chord in unison with what we hear
Is touched within us, and the heart replies.
How soft the music of those village bells
Falling at intervals upon the ear
In cadence sweet!
Here the heart
May give a useful lesson to the head,
And Learning wiser grow without his books.
Knowledge and Wisdom, far from being one,
Have oft-times no connexion, Knowledge dwells
in heads replete with thoughts of other men,
Wisdom in minds attentive to their own.
Knowledge, a rude unprofitable mass,
The mere materials with which wisdom builds,
Till smoothed and squared and fitted to its place,
Does but encumber whom it seems to enrich.
Knowledge is proud that he
Wisdom is humble that he knows no more.
Books are not seldom talismans and spells.
Some to the fascination of a name
Surrender judgment hoodwink'd.
The Task, book vi. Winter Walk at Noon, line 101.
Nature is but a name for an effect,
Whose cause is God.
Not a flower
But shows some touch, in freckle, streak or stain,
Of his unrivall'd pencil.
But many a crime deem'd innocent on earth
Is register'd in H and these no doubt
Have each their record, with a curse annex'd.
Man may dismiss compassion from his heart,
But God will never.
I would not enter on my list of friends,
(Though graced with polish'd manners and fine sense,
Yet wanting sensibility) the man
Who needlessly sets foot upon a worm.
An inadvertent step may crush the snail
That crawls at evenin
But he that has humanity, forewarn'd,
Will tread aside, and let the reptile live.
Quotes reported in Bartlett's Familiar Quotations, 10th ed. (1919).
Just knows, and knows no more, her Bible true,—
A truth the brilliant Frenchman never knew.
Truth, line 327.
The sounding jargon of the schools.
Truth, line 367.
When one that holds communion with the skies
Has fill'd his urn where these pure waters rise,
And once more mingles with us meaner things,
'T is e'en as if an angel shook his wings.
Charity, line 435.
A kick that scarce would move a horse
May kill a sound divine.
The Yearly Distress.
But the sound of the church-going bell
These valleys a
Ne'er sigh'd at the sound of a knell,
Or smiled when a Sabbath appear'd.
Verses supposed to be written by Alexander Selkirk.
How fleet is a glance of the mind!
Compared with the speed of its flight
The tempest itself lags behind,
And the swift-winged arrows of light.
Verses supposed to be written by Alexander Selkirk.
There goes the parson, O illustrious spark!
And there, scarce less illustrious, goes the clerk.
On observing some Names of Little Note.
And the tear that is wiped with a little address,
May be follow'd perhaps by a smile.
'T is Providence alone secures
In every change both mine and yours.
A Fable, Moral.
I shall not ask Jean Jacques Rousseau
If birds confabulate or no.
Pairing Time Anticipated.
The path of sorrow, and that path alone,
Leads to the land where sorrow is unknown.
To an Afflicted Protestant Lady.
Oh that those lips had language! Life has pass'd
With me but roughly since I heard thee last.
On the Receipt of my Mother's Picture.
The son of parents pass'd into the skies.
On the Receipt of my Mother's Picture.
The man that hails you Tom or Jack,
And proves, by thumping on your back,
His sense of your great merit,
Is such a friend that one had need
Be very much his friend indeed
To pardon or to bear it.
On Friendship.
A worm is in the bud of youth,
And at the root of age.
Stanzas subjoined to a Bill of Mortality.
There is a bird who by his coat,
And by the hoarseness of his note,
Might be supposed a crow.
The Jackdaw (translation from Vincent Bourne).
He sees that this great roundabout
The world, with all its motley rout,
Church, army, physic, law,
Its customs and its businesses,
Is no concern at all of his,
And says—what says he?—Caw.
The Jackdaw (translation from Vincent Bourne).
For 't is a truth well known to most,
That whatsoever thing is lost,
We seek it, ere it come to light,
In every cranny but the right.
The Retired Cat.
He that holds fast the golden mean, 22
And lives contentedly between
The little and the great,
Feels not the wants that pinch the poor,
Nor plagues that haunt the rich man's door.
Translation of Horace, book ii, Ode x.
But strive still to be a man before your mother.
Connoisseur. Motto of No. iii.
Ever let the Fancy roam,
Pleasure never is at home.
Actually the opening lines of 's "Fancy" (1820).
No man can be a patriot on an empty stomach.
From the writings of
(1855 – 1898), known as Brann the Iconoclast.
The innocent seldom find an uncomfortable pillow.
A misquotation of "The innocent seldom find an uneasy pillow", from 's The Red Rover (1827), ch. 23.
The mind of Cowper was, so to speak, naturally terrestrial. If a man wishes for a nice appreciation of the details of time and sense, let him consult Cowper's miscellaneous letters. Each simple event of every day—each petty object of external observation or inward suggestion, is there chronicled with a fine and female fondness, a wise and happy faculty, let us say, of deriving a gentle happiness from the tranquil and passing hour.
, "William Cowper" in The National Review (1855), p. 52.
Cowper, writing after , had the advantage of k but he was misled by a false analogy, and seeing in
a great epic poet, austere in his manner and repellent of meretricious ornament, attempted to force on
which, rightly considered, is almost as artificial as 's, and which, moreover, he was himself unequal to wield.
, on Cowper's translation of Homer, in Oxford Essays (1855), "The Poetry of Pope", p. 30.
Have you ever read the letters of the poet Cowper? He had nothing—literally nothing— private life in a sleepy country town where Evangelical distrust of "the world" denied him even such miserable society as the place would have afforded. And yet one reads a whole volume of his letters with unfailing interest. How his tooth came loose at dinner, how he made a hutch for a tame hare, what he is doing about his cucumbers—all this he makes one follow as if the fate of empires hung on it.
, letter to his father (25 February 1928) — in Letters of C. S. Lewis (1966), p. 124.
We can not but admire a man who, subject to a lifelong illness that inflicted with frequent recurrence an intense mental agony, fought persistently against his weakness—at times their master, at times a victim to their influence. Still he did not flinch even under this torture, but held his pen and pressed it to write in a cause which was distinctly unpopular. Cowper was preeminentl he may have been melancholy, but he pointed out to his readers how they were themselves subjects of emotion. He owed a debt to Providence, and he rebuked the people for their follies. In doing so he was regardless of his own fame and of their opprobrium. He gave them tolerable advice, and strove to awaken them from their apathy to a sense of their duty towards their neighbours. First of poets, since the days of Milton, to champion the sacredness of religion, he was the forerunner of a new school that disliked the political satires of the disciples of Pope, and aimed at borrowing for their lines of song from the simple beauties of a perfect nature.
, "The Centenary of Cowper", in The Westminster Review, Vol. 153 (May, 1900), p. 545.
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