Married beneath him, by the author of 'Lost sir Massingberd'.

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Seite 112 - More we enjoy it, more it dies ; If not enjoyed, it sighing cries, Heigh ho ! Love is a torment of the mind, A tempest everlasting ; And Jove hath made it of a kind Not well, nor full, nor fasting. Why so ? More we enjoy it, more it dies ; If not enjoyed, it sighing cries, Heigh ho ! EYES, HIDE MY LOVE.
Seite 114 - O darling Katie Willows, his one child ! A maiden of our century, yet most meek ; A daughter of our meadows, yet not coarse ; Straight, but as lissome as a hazel wand ; Her eyes a bashful azure, and her hair In gloss and hue the chestnut, when the shell Divides threefold to show the fruit within.
Seite 55 - I can give not what men call love, But wilt thou accept not The worship the heart lifts above And the Heavens reject not, The desire of the moth for the star, Of the night for the morrow, The devotion to something afar From the sphere of our sorrow...
Seite 98 - A great broad-shoulder'd genial Englishman, A lord of fat prize-oxen and of sheep, A raiser of huge melons and of pine, A patron of some thirty charities, A pamphleteer on guano and on grain, A quarter-sessions chairman, abler none...
Seite 283 - Tom Brown at Oxford. By the Author of
Seite 107 - Incipit ; insequitur commixta grandine nimbus ; Et Tyrii comites passim et Trojana juventus Dardaniusque nepos Veneris diversa per agros Tecta metu petiere ; ruunt de montibus amnes.
Seite 140 - ... closed behind us, and the voices died away, Do the singers cease their singing, and the children end their play? Do the words of wisdom well no more through the calm lips of age? Are the fountains dried whence the young draw hopes too deep for the faith of the sage ? And, like the flower that closes up when the east begins to glow, Doth the maiden's beauty fade from off her tender cheek and brow? Are they all but subtle spirits changing into those and these, To vex us with a feigned sorrow, or...
Seite 100 - So all that the old Dukes had been without knowing it, This Duke would fain know he was, without being it.
Seite 141 - ... watch our lonely hours, ambushing about our path, That our eyes may never open till their lids are closed in death ; And when so closed, will these things be as though we had ne'er been born, And e'en without those tears which are dried swift as the dews by the morn, That makes us feel these fancies more, so strange doth it appear, How the memory of a dead man dies with those he held most dear, As though there was an end, with life, of the mockery that beguiles Our every act, tricks out our woes,...
Seite 141 - ... Are they all but subtle spirits changing into those and these, To vex us with a feigned sorrow, or to mock us while they please? All this world a scene phantasmal, shifting aye to something strange, Such as, if but disenchanted, one might mark in act to change. See the unembodied beings that we hold of our own kind, Friend and foe, and kin and lover, each a help to make us blind, Set to watch our lonely hours, ambushing about our path, That our eyes may never open till their lids are closed in...

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