In the key of blue and other prose essays (Google eBook)

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E. Mathews & J. Lane, 1893 - 302 pages
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Page 282 - ... neither towers Nor armour for defence, Nor secret vaults to fly From thunder's violence. He only can behold With unaffrighted eyes The horrors of the deep And terrors of the skies. Thus scorning all the cares That fate or fortune brings, He makes the heaven his book, His wisdom heavenly things, Good thoughts his only friends, His wealth a well-spent age, The earth his sober inn And quiet pilgrimage.
Page 275 - Yet if His Majesty our sovereign lord Should of his own accord Friendly himself invite, And say "I'll be your guest to-morrow night," How should we stir ourselves, call and command All hands to work! "Let no man idle stand. "Set me fine Spanish tables in the hall, See they be fitted all; Let there be room to eat, And order taken that there want no meat. See every sconce and candlestick made bright, That without tapers they may give a light. "Look to the presence: are the carpets spread, The dazie...
Page 250 - In such a night Stood Dido with a willow in her hand Upon the wild sea-banks, and waft her love To come again to Carthage.
Page 249 - Come not to me again : but say to Athens, Timon hath made his everlasting mansion Upon the beached verge of the salt flood ; Who once a day with his embossed froth The turbulent surge shall cover : thither come, And let my grave-stone be your oracle.
Page 263 - Farewell ungrateful traitor, Farewell my perjured swain, Let never injured creature Believe a man again. The pleasure of possessing Surpasses all expressing, But 'tis too short a blessing, And love too long a pain.
Page 256 - All the gain, all the good, of the elements' strife. Have you seen but a bright lily grow, Before rude hands have touched it ? Have you marked but the fall of the snow, Before the soil hath smutched it ? Have you felt the wool of the beaver, Or swan's down ever ? Or have smelt o...
Page 254 - Lay a garland on my hearse, Of the dismal yew; Maidens, willow branches bear; Say I died true: My love was false, but I was firm From my hour of birth. Upon my buried body lie Lightly, gentle earth!
Page 282 - I have no other choice Either for pen or voice To sing or write. 0 Love! they wrong thee much That say thy sweet is bitter, When thy rich fruit is such As nothing can be sweeter. Fair house of joy and bliss, Where truest pleasure is, I do adore thee: 1 know thee what thou art, I serve thee with my heart, And fall before thee.
Page 296 - When to her lute Corinna sings, Her voice revives the leaden strings, And doth in highest notes appear As any challenged echo clear. But when she doth of mourning speak, E'en with her sighs the strings do break.
Page 245 - O, thou art fairer than the evening air Clad in the beauty of a thousand stars...

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