British Theatre, Том 6

Передня обкладинка
J. Bell, 1791
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Сторінка 19 - Age sits with decent grace upon his visage, And worthily becomes his silver locks; He wears the marks of many years well spent, Of virtue, truth well tried, and wise experience; A friend like this would suit my sorrows well.
Сторінка 21 - And yet some of those days my friend has known, Some of those years might pass for golden ones, At least if womankind can judge of happiness. What could we wish, we who delight in empire, Whose beauty is our...
Сторінка 23 - Does Hastings undertake to plead your cause? But wherefore should he not? Hastings has eyes; The gentle lord has a right tender heart, Melting and easy, yielding to impression, And catching the soft flame from each new beauty.
Сторінка 66 - Should'ring each other, crowding for a view, Gaping and gazing, taunting and reviling; Some pitying, but those, alas! how few! The most, such iron hearts we are, and such The base barbarity of human kind, With...
Сторінка 20 - The senseless grave feels not your pious sorrows : Three years and more are past, since I was bid, With many of our common friends, to wait him To his last peaceful mansion. I attended, Sprinkled his clay-cold corse with holy drops, According to our church's rev'rend rite, And saw him laid in hallow'd ground, to rest.
Сторінка 28 - What proof, alas! have I not given of love? What have I not abandon'd to thy arms? Have I not set at nought my noble birth, A spotless fame and an unblemish'd race, The peace of innocence and pride of virtue?
Сторінка 55 - Dare not, ev'n for thy soul, to thwart me , further ! None of your arts, your feigning and your foolery ; Your dainty squeamish coying it to me ; Go — to your lord, your paramour, begone ! Lisp in his ear, hang wanton on his neck, And play your monkey gambols o'er to him.
Сторінка 16 - Till life fled from us like an idle dream, A show of mommery without a meaning. My brother, rest and pardon to his soul, Is gone to his account; for this his minion.
Сторінка 69 - Which the sun ripens in the Indian mine, Or the rich bosom of the ocean yields ; What was there art could make, or wealth could buy, •• Which I have left unsought to deck her beauty ? What could her king do more?

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