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Seite 45 - I have heard That guilty creatures, sitting at a play, Have by the very cunning of the scene Been struck so to the soul that presently They have proclaim'd their malefactions; For murder, though it have no tongue, will speak With most miraculous organ.
Seite 404 - What is a man, If his chief good and market of his time Be but to sleep and feed? a beast, no more. Sure he that made us with such large discourse, Looking before and after, gave us not That capability and god-like reason To fust in us unus'd.
Seite 166 - Licence they mean when they cry Liberty ; For who loves that must first be wise and good ; But from that mark how far they rove we see, For all this waste of wealth and loss of blood.
Seite 386 - This is the excellent foppery of the world, that, when we are sick in fortune, — often the surfeit of our own behaviour, — we make guilty of our disasters the sun, the moon, and the stars...
Seite 316 - Priam's hoary hairs defiled with gore, Not all my brothers gasping on the shore; As thine, Andromache! Thy griefs I dread: I see thee trembling, weeping, captive led! In Argive looms our battles to design, And woes, of which so large a part was thine!
Seite 150 - Thrice happy swain ! A lucky chance, that oft decides the fate Of mighty monarchs, then decided thine. For, lo ! conducted by the laughing Loves, This cool retreat his Musidora sought : Warm in her cheek the sultry season glow'd; And, rob'd in loose array, she came to bathe Her fervent limbs in the refreshing stream.
Seite 236 - twas wild. But thou, O Hope, with eyes so fair, What was thy delighted measure ? Still it whisper'd promis'd pleasure, And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail ! Still would her touch the strain prolong; And from the rocks, the woods, the vale, She...
Seite 316 - Behold the mighty Hector's wife! Some haughty Greek, who lives thy tears to see, Embitters all thy woes by naming me. The thoughts of glory past, and present shame A thousand griefs shall waken at the name. May I lie cold before that dreadful day, Press'd with a load of monumental clay! Thy Hector, wrapt in everlasting sleep, Shall neither hear thee sigh, nor see thee weep.
Seite 316 - My soul impels me to the embattled plains! Let me be foremost to defend the throne, And guard my father's glories, and my own. "Yet come it will, the day decreed by fates!
Seite 294 - Fayel's hair, and put it among the powder, together with a little note he had written with his own blood to her ; and after he had given him the rites of burial, to make all the speed he could to France, and deliver the said box to Madame Fayel.