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Seite 15 - Wisdom's self Oft seeks to sweet retired solitude ; Where, with her best nurse, Contemplation, She plumes her feathers, and lets grow her wings, That in the various bustle of resort Were all too ruffled, and sometimes impair'd. He that has light within his own clear breast, May sit i...
Seite 14 - Make yourself a little easy; I have a thought shall soon set all matters again to rights. Why so melancholy, Polly? since what is done cannot be undone, we must all endeavour to make the best of it. MRS. PEACH: Well, Polly; as far as one woman can forgive another, I forgive thee.
Seite 7 - Or ounce, or tiger, hog, or bearded goat, All other parts remaining as they were ; And they, so perfect is their misery, Not once perceive their foul disfigurement, But boast themselves more comely than before ; And all their friends and native home forget, To roll with pleasure in a sensual sty.
Seite 31 - That in their green shops weave the smooth-hair'd silk, To deck her sons ; and, that no corner might Be vacant of her plenty, in her own loins She hutch'd the all-worshipp'd ore and precious gems, To store her children with : if all the world Should, in a pet of temperance, feed on pulse...
Seite 37 - I rather chuse to die than be another's. — Make me, if possible, love thee more, and let me owe my Life to thee — If you refuse to assist me, Peachum and your Father will immediately put me beyond all means of Escape. Lucy. My Father, I know, hath been drinking hard with the Prisoners: and I fancy he is now taking his Nap in his own Room — if I can procure the Keys, shall I go off with thee, my Dear?
Seite 12 - And in sweet madness robb'd it of itself; But such a sacred, and home-felt delight, Such sober certainty of waking bliss I never heard till now.
Seite 10 - Such as the jocund flute, or gamesome pipe, Stirs up among the loose unletter'd hinds, When, for their teeming flocks, and granges full, In wanton dance they praise the bounteous Pan, And thank the gods amiss.
Seite 5 - A lazy dog! When I took him the time before, I told him what he would come to if he did not mend his hand. This is death without reprieve. I may venture to book him. (writes) "For Tom Gagg, forty pounds.