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Seite 1 - The web of our life is of a mingled yarn, good and ill together : our virtues would be proud if our faults whipped them not; and our crimes would despair if they were not cherished by our virtues.
Seite 173 - Under the greenwood tree Who loves to lie with me, And tune his merry note Unto the sweet bird's throat-- Come hither, come hither, come hither! Here shall we see No enemy But winter and rough weather. Who doth ambition shun And loves to live i' the sun, Seeking the food he eats And pleased with what he gets-- Come hither, come hither, come hither!
Seite 115 - Out of my grief and my impatience, Answer'd neglectingly I know not what, He should, or he should not; for he made me mad, To see him shine so brisk and smell so sweet...
Seite 86 - And let th' aspiring youth beware of love, Of the smooth glance beware; for 'tis too late, When on his heart the torrent softness pours. Then wisdom prostrate lies, and fading fame Dissolves in air away ; while the fond soul, Wrapt in gay visions of unreal bliss, Still paints th' illusive form ; the kindling grace ; Th...
Seite 150 - She never told her love, But let concealment, like a worm i' the bud, Feed on her damask cheek : she pined in thought, And with a green and yellow melancholy She sat like patience on a monument, Smiling at grief.
Seite 11 - Full are thy cities with the sons of Art; And trade, and joy, in every busy street, Mingling are heard; even Drudgery himself, As at the car he sweats, or dusty hews The palace stone, looks gay. Thy crowded ports, Where rising masts an endless prospect yield, With labour burn...
Seite 180 - Oh ! what was love made for, if 'tis not the same Through joy and through torment, through glory and shame ? I know not, I ask not, if guilt's in that heart, I but know that I love thee, whatever thou art.
Seite 123 - tis in my custody. Oth. Ha! lago. O, beware, my lord, of jealousy ; It is the green-eyed monster, which doth mock The meat it feeds on : that cuckold lives in bliss Who, certain of his fate, loves not his wronger ; But, O, what damned minutes tells he o'er Who dotes, yet doubts, suspects, yet strongly loves ! Oth.