A view of society and manners in the north of Ireland: in the summer and autumn of 1812 (Google eBook)

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Printed for C. Cardock and W. Joy, 1813 - Ireland - 399 pages
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Page 283 - And Joseph made ready his chariot, and went up to meet Israel his father, to Goshen, and presented himself unto him; and he fell on his neck, and wept on his neck a good while. ^And Israel said unto Joseph, Now let me die, since I have seen thy face, because thou art yet alive.
Page 304 - gainst that season comes Wherein our Saviour's birth is celebrated, The bird of dawning singeth all night long : And then, they say, no spirit dare 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.
Page 329 - It is better to go to the house of mourning, than to go to the house of feasting: for that is the end of all men ; and the living will lay it to his heart. Sorrow is better than laughter: for by the sadness of the countenance the heart is made better.
Page 185 - Forsake me not, O Lord : O my God, be not far from me. Make haste to help me, O Lord my salvation.
Page 136 - Lets in new light through chinks that Time has made: Stronger by weakness, wiser, men become As they draw near to their eternal home. Leaving the old, both worlds at once they view That stand upon the threshold of the new.
Page 179 - I wear: And cold and weary lasts our night, Till that last morn appear. But hark! the cock has warn'd me hence; A long and late adieu! Come, see, false man, how low she lies, Who dy'd for love of you.
Page 374 - The glories of our blood and state Are shadows, not substantial things ; There is no armour against fate ; Death lays his icy hand on kings : Sceptre and crown Must tumble down, And in the dust be equal made With the poor crooked scythe and spade.
Page 256 - For honourable age is not that which standeth in length of time, nor that is measured by number of years. But wisdom is the gray hair unto men, and an unspotted life is old age.
Page 179 - That face, alas! no more is fair, Those lips no longer red; Dark are my eyes, now closed in death, And every charm is fled. The hungry worm my sister is; This winding-sheet I wear: And cold and weary lasts our night, Till that last morn appear. But, hark! the cock has warned me hence; A long and last adieu ! Come see, false man, how low she lies, Who died for love of you.
Page 215 - A bundle of myrrh is my wellbeloved unto me; he shall lie all night betwixt my breasts. My beloved is unto me as a cluster of camphire in the vineyards of En-gedi. Behold, thou art fair, my love; behold, thou art fair; thou hast doves

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