British Theatre: The mourning bride, by Mr. Congreve. 1791. Douglas, by John Home. 1791. The Albion queens; or, The death of Mary, queen of Scots, by J. Banks. 1791 |
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Almeria Alphonso arms bear behold blood brave breast bright cause child comes command crown cruel Davison dead death dost thou Douglas duke earth Enter Exit eyes face faithful fall fatal fate father fear foes follow give Glen Glenalvon Gons grief guard hand hast head hear heard heart Heav'n hold hopes hour husband I'll innocence kind King kneel Lady leave Leon light live look lord lost majesty Mary mean meet mind Morton mourn nature ne'er never noble Norval once Osmyn pity poor prince prison queen rage Randolph rest rise royal SCENE seen sight soul speak sure sword tears tell thee thou art thought virtue voice wait weep wretched youth Zara
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63 ÆäÀÌÁö - Heav'n has no rage like love to hatred turn'd, Nor hell a fury like a woman scorn'd.
36 ÆäÀÌÁö - Whom, with a troop of fifty chosen men, I met advancing. The pursuit I led, Till we o'ertook the spoil-encumber'd foe. We fought and conquer'd. E're a sword was drawn, An arrow from my bow had pierc'd their chief, Who wore that day the arms which now I wear.
35 ÆäÀÌÁö - My name is Norval ! on the Grampian hills My father feeds his flocks : a frugal swain, Whose constant cares were to increase his store, And keep his only son, myself, at home. For I had heard of battles, and I long'd To follow to the field some warlike lord : And Heav'n soon granted what my sire denied.
35 ÆäÀÌÁö - They turn'd upon him: but his active arm Struck to the ground, from whence they rose no more, The fiercest two; the others fled amain, And left him master of the bloody field. Speak, Lady Randolph : upon Beauty's tongue Dwell accents pleasing to the brave and bold. Speak, noble dame, and thank him for thy lord. LADY RANDOLPH.
31 ÆäÀÌÁö - Looking tranquillity ! it strikes an awe And terror on my aching sight ; the tombs And monumental caves of death look cold, And shoot a chillness to my trembling heart.
67 ÆäÀÌÁö - Oh, thou all-righteous and eternal King, Who father of the fatherless art call'd, Protect my son ! Thy inspiration, Lord ! Hath fill'd his bosom with that sacred fire, Which in the breasts of his forefathers burn'd ! Set him on high like them, that he may shine, The star and glory of his native land ! Then let the minister of death descend, And bear my willing spirit to it's place.
74 ÆäÀÌÁö - Through skies, where I could count each little star. The fanning west wind scarcely stirs the leaves ; The river, rushing o'er its pebbled bed, Imposes silence, with a stilly sound. In such a place as this, at such an hour, If ancestry...
71 ÆäÀÌÁö - Therefore I thank Glenalvon for his counsel, Although it sounded harshly. Why remind Me of my birth obscure ? Why slur my power With such contemptuous terms ? Glen.
31 ÆäÀÌÁö - And terror on my aching sight; the tombs And monumental caves of death look cold, And shoot a dullness to my trembling heart. Give me thy hand, and let me hear thy voice; Nay, quickly speak to me, and let me hear Thy voice — my own affrights me with its echoes.
18 ÆäÀÌÁö - Which are diffused through the revolving year, Come, heavy-laden with the oppressing weight, To me ; with me, successively, they leave The sighs, the tears, the groans, the restless cares, And all the damps of grief, that did retard their flight; They shake their downy wings, and scatter all The dire collected dews on my poor head ; Then fly with joy and swiftness from me.