Chatsworth; or, The romance of a week [by P.G. Patmore]. Ed. by the author of 'Tremaine'.

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1844
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Сторінка 127 - Asp. It were a timeless smile should prove my cheek : It were a fitter hour for me to laugh, When at the altar the religious priest Were pacifying the offended powers With sacrifice, than now.
Сторінка 149 - Full with her sorrow, she tied fast her eyes To the fair Trojan ships, and having lost them, Just as thine eyes do, down stole a tear, Antiphila. What would this wench do, if she were Aspatia ? Here she would stand,- till some more pitying god Turn'd her to marble: 'tis enough, my wench ; Show me the piece of needle-work you wrought. Ant. Of Ariadne, madam ? Asp. Yes, that piece. This should be Theseus, h' as a cozening face ; You meant him for a man ? Ant.
Сторінка 82 - Not mine own fears, nor the prophetic soul Of the wide world dreaming on things to come, Can yet the lease of my true love control, Supposed as forfeit to a confined doom.
Сторінка 129 - You'll come, my lord, and see the virgins weep When I am laid in earth, though you yourself Can know no pity : thus I wind myself Into this willow garland, and am prouder, That I was once your love (though now refus'd) Than to have had another true to me.
Сторінка 127 - In giving me a spotless offering To young Amintor's bed, as we are now For you. Pardon, Evadne : would my worth Were great as yours, or that the King, or he, Or both, thought so ! Perhaps he found me worthless : But till he did so, in these ears of mine, These eredulous ears, he pour'd the sweetest words That art or love could frame.
Сторінка 150 - Twill make the story, wrong'd by wanton poets, Live long and be believ'd ; but where's the lady ? Ant. There, madam. Asp. Fie, you have miss'd it here, Antiphila, You are much mistaken, wench ; These colours are not dull and pale enough, To shew a soul so full of misery As this sad lady's was...
Сторінка 150 - To show a soul so full of misery As this sad lady's was. Do it by me, Do it again by me, the lost Aspatia ; And you shall find all true but the wild island. Suppose I stand upon the sea-beach now...
Сторінка 79 - The pale face is resting on clasped hand, — over which, and all round the small exquisitely modelled head, fall heavy waves of auburn hair, concealing all but one pale cheek — pale and cold as marble, but smooth and soft as a girl's.
Сторінка 149 - When Paris brought home Helen. Now, a tear; And then thou art a piece expressing fully The Carthage queen, when, from a cold sea-rock, Full with her sorrow, she tied fast her eyes To the fair Trojan ships ; and, having lost them, Just as thine eyes do, down stole a tear. Antiphila...
Сторінка 224 - This earth of mine doth tremble, and I feel A stark affrighted motion in my blood ; My soul grows weary of her house, and I All over am a trouble to myself.

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