The Life of David Belasco, Volume 1 (Google eBook)

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William Jefferson Winter
Moffat, Yard, 1918 - Dramatists, American
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Contents

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Page vii - Each petty hand Can steer a ship becalm'd; but he that will Govern and carry her to her ends, must know His tides, his currents; how to shift his sails; What she will bear in foul, what in fair weathers...
Page 154 - ... in the very torrent, tempest, and (as I may say) whirlwind of your passion, you must acquire and beget a temperance, that may give it smoothness. O, it offends me to the soul, to hear a robustious periwig-pated fellow tear a passion to tatters, to very rags, to split the ears of the groundlings...
Page 214 - The very first Of human life must spring from woman's breast. Your first small words are taught you from her lips, Your first tears quench'd by her, and your last sighs Too often breathed out in a woman's hearing, When men have shrunk from the ignoble care Of watching the last hour of him who led them.
Page 382 - Then gently scan your brother Man, Still gentler sister Woman ; Tho' they may gang a kennin wrang, To step aside is human : One point must still be greatly dark, The moving Why they do it ; And just as lamely can ye mark, How far perhaps they rue it.
Page 136 - Who, you all know, are honourable men : I will not do them wrong; I rather choose To wrong the dead, to wrong myself and you, Than I will wrong such honorable men.
Page xxvi - mid the Islands of the Blest, Or in the fields of empyrean light. A meteor wert thou crossing a dark night : Yet shall thy name, conspicuous and sublime, Stand in the spacious firmament of time, Fixed as a star : such glory is thy right. Alas ! it may not be : for earthly fame Is Fortune's frail...
Page 371 - I'll never love thee more. Like Alexander I will reign, And I will reign alone, My thoughts shall evermore disdain A rival on my throne. He either fears his fate too much, Or his deserts are small, That puts it not unto the touch, To win or lose it all.
Page 302 - Heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned, Nor hell a fury like a woman scorned.
Page 175 - For ill can Poetry express Full many a tone of thought sublime, And Painting, mute and motionless, Steals but a glance of time. But by the mighty actor brought, Illusion's perfect triumphs come, Verse ceases to be airy thought, And Sculpture to be dumb.
Page 154 - I have a silent sorrow here, A grief I'll ne'er impart ; It breathes no sigh, it sheds no tear, But it consumes my heart.

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