Old Christmas and Bracebridge Hall: From the Sketch-book of Washington Irving

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Houghton Mifflin, 1919 - 284 Seiten
 

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Seite 113 - Rise up, my love, my fair one, and come away. For, lo, the winter is past, The rain is over and gone ; The flowers appear on the earth ; The time of the singing of birds is come, And the voice of the turtle is heard in our land ; The fig tree putteth forth her green figs, And the vines with the tender grape give a good smell. Arise, my love, my fair one, and come away.
Seite 25 - Lear. The little dogs and all, Tray, Blanch, and Sweet-heart, see, they bark at me.
Seite 210 - UNDER THE GREENWOOD TREE' UNDER the greenwood tree Who loves to lie with me, And turn his merry note Unto the sweet bird's throat; Come hither, come hither, come hither: Here shall he see No enemy But winter and rough weather. Who doth ambition shun And loves to live i...
Seite 9 - gainst that season comes Wherein our saviour's birth is celebrated, This bird of dawning singeth all night long : And then, they say, no spirit dares stir abroad ; The nights are wholesome ; then no planets strike, No fairy takes, nor witch hath power to charm, So hallow'd and so gracious is the time.
Seite 127 - Why, soldiers, why Should we be melancholy, boys, Why, soldiers, why ? Whose business 'tis to die...
Seite 38 - Let not the dark thee cumber ; What though the moon does slumber? The stars of the night Will lend thee their light, Like tapers clear without number. Then, Julia, let me woo thee, Thus, thus to come unto me ; And when I shall meet Thy silvery feet, My soul I'll pour into thee.
Seite 199 - SONG. Go, lovely Rose, Tell her that wastes her time and me, That now she knows When I resemble her to thee How sweet and fair she seems to be. Tell her that's young, And shuns to have her graces spied, That had'st thou sprung In deserts where no men abide, Thou must have uncommended died. Small is the worth Of beauty from the light retired ; Bid her...
Seite 106 - From seventeen years till now almost fourscore Here lived I, but now live here no more. At seventeen years many their fortunes seek, But at fourscore it is too late a week: Yet fortune cannot recompense me better Than to die well and not my master's debtor.
Seite 70 - ... not exactly do for a lady's ear ; and though I cannot positively affirm that there was much wit uttered, yet I have certainly heard many contests of rare wit produce much less laughter. Wit, after all, is a mighty tart, pungent ingredient, and much too acid for some stomachs ; but honest good humour is the oil and wine of a merry meeting, and there is no jovial companionship equal to that where the jokes are rather small, and the laughter abundant.
Seite 81 - Come, bring with a noise, My merrie, merrie boyes, The Christmas log to the firing; While my good dame, she Bids ye all be free, And drink to your hearts desiring.

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