Sharpe's British Theatre, Band 7

J. Sharpe, 1804

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Seite 74 - Then hear me, bounteous heaven ; Pour down your blessings on this beauteous head, Where everlasting sweets are always springing : . With a continual giving hand, let peace, Honour, and safety, always hover round her ; Feed her with plenty, let her eyes ne'er see A sight of sorrow, nor her heart know mourning : Crown all her days with joy, her nights with rest Harmless as her own thoughts, and prop...
Seite 37 - Look not upon me, as I am a woman, But as a bone, thy wife, thy friend, who long Has had admission to thy heart, and there...
Seite 28 - To you, sirs, and your honours, I bequeath her, And with her this, when I prove unworthy — [Gives a dagger. You know the rest: — then strike it to her heart; And tell her, he, who three whole happy years Lay in her arms, and each kind night repeated The passionate vows of still-increasing love, Sent that reward for all her truth and sufferings.
Seite 15 - Lead me, lead me, my virgins, To that kind voice. My lord, my love, my refuge ! Happy my eyes, when they behold thy face ! My heavy heart will leave its doleful beating At sight of thee, and bound with sprightly joys.
Seite 9 - There's not a wretch that lives on common charity But's happier than me : For I have known The luscious sweets of plenty; every night Have slept with soft content about my head, And never wak'd but to a joyful morning ; Yet now must fall like a full ear of corn, Whose blossom 'scap'd, yet's wither'd in the ripening.
Seite 8 - A sterile fortune and a barren bed Attend you both : continual discord make Your days and nights bitter and grievous still : May the hard hand of a vexatious need Oppress and grind you, till at last you find The curse of disobedience all your portion ! Jaf.
Seite 62 - I've lost All my soul's peace; for every thought of him Strikes my sense hard, and deads it in my brains; Wouldst thou believe it? Belv. Speak.
Seite 16 - When banished by our miseries abroad, (As suddenly we shall be) to seek out, In some far climate where our names are strangers, For charitable succour ; wilt thou then, When in a bed of straw we shrink together, And the bleak winds shall whistle round our heads ; Wilt thou then talk thus to me ? Wilt thou then Hush my cares thus, and shelter me with love ? Belv.
Seite 19 - tis so with me; — For every step I tread, methinks some fiend Knocks at my breast, and bids it not be quiet: I've heard, how desperate wretches, like myself, Have wandered out at this dead time of night To meet the foe of mankind in his walk: Sure I'm so curst, that, tho' of Heaven forsaken, No minister of darkness cares to tempt me.
Seite 5 - Sure all our swearers might be laid aside: No, of such tools our author has no need, To make his plot, or make his play succeed; He, of black Bills, has no prodigious tales, Or Spanish pilgrims...

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