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Seite 70 - There was, as usual, a crowd of folk about the door, but none that Rip recollected. The very character of the people seemed changed. There was a busy, bustling, disputatious tone about it instead of the accustomed phlegm and drowsy tranquillity.
Seite 175 - Thou didst swear to me upon a parcel-gilt goblet, sitting in my Dolphin chamber, at the round table, by a sea-coal fire, on Wednesday, in Whitsun week, when the prince broke thy head for liking his father to a singing-man of Windsor ; thou didst swear to me then, as I was washing thy wound, to marry me, and make me my lady, thy wife.
Seite 198 - Lay a garland on my hearse, Of the dismal yew; Maidens, willow branches bear; Say I died true: My love was false, but I was firm From my hour of birth. Upon my buried body lie Lightly, gentle earth!
Seite 199 - With fairest flowers, Whilst summer lasts, and I live here, Fidele, I'll sweeten thy sad grave : thou shalt not lack The flower that's like thy face, pale primrose ; nor The azured hare-bell, like thy veins ; no, nor The leaf of eglantine, whom not to slander, Out-sweeten'd not thy breath...
Seite 73 - The name of the child, the air of the mother, the tone of her voice, all awakened a train of recollections in his mind. "What is your name, my good woman ? " asked he. * "Judith Gardenier.
Seite 62 - When anything that was read or related displeased him, he was observed to smoke his pipe vehemently, and to send forth short, frequent, and angry puffs ; but when pleased, he would...
Seite 55 - Every change of season, every change of weather, indeed every hour of the day, produces some change in the magical hues and shapes of these mountains, and 56 they are regarded by all the good wives, far and near, as perfect barometers.
Seite 59 - Rip Van Winkle, however, was one of those happy mortals, of foolish, well-oiled dispositions, who take the world easy, eat white bread or brown, whichever can be got with least thought or trouble, and would rather starve on a penny than work for a pound.
Seite 63 - He was after his favorite sport of squirrel-shooting, and the still solitudes had echoed and re-echoed with the reports of his gun. Panting and fatigued, he threw himself, late in the afternoon, on a green knoll covered with mountain herbage, that crowned the brow of a precipice.