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Seite 69 - The eye of man hath not heard, the ear of man hath not seen, man's hand is not able to taste, his tongue to conceive, nor his heart to report what my dream was!
Seite 344 - He rais'd his head with whining moan, And thus was heard the feeble tone : "Ah! sons! from evil ways depart; My crimes lie heavy on my heart. See, see, the murder'd geese appear ! Why are those bleeding turkeys there? Why all around this cackling train, Who haunt my ears for chickens slain ?" The hungry foxes round them star'd, And for the promis'd feast prepar'd.
Seite 391 - This story shall the good man teach his son; And Crispin Crispian shall ne'er go by, From this day to the ending of the world, But we in it shall be remembered...
Seite 67 - O'er his broad back bends in an ample arch ; On shoulders clean, upright and firm he stands ; His round cat foot, straight hams, and wide-spread thighs, And his low-dropping chest, confess his speed.
Seite 385 - ... here The mettle of your pasture ; let us swear That you are worth your breeding : which I doubt not; For there is none of you so mean and base, That hath not noble lustre in your eyes. I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips,* Straining upon the start. The game's afoot ; Follow your spirit : and, upon this charge, Cry — God for Harry ! England ! and Saint George ! [Exeunt . Alarum, and Chambers go off.
Seite 345 - ... descends the long disgrace, And infamy hath mark'd our race. Though we, like harmless sheep, should feed, Honest in thought, in word, and deed, Whatever hen-roost is decreas'd, We shall be thought to share the feast. The change shall never be believ'd. A lost good name is ne'er retriev'd. Nay then, replies the feeble Fox, (But hark ! I hear a Hen that clocks) Go, but be mod'rate in your food; A Chicken too might do me good.
Seite 344 - THE FOX AT THE POINT OF DEATH. A Fox, in life's extreme decay, Weak, sick, and faint, expiring lay ; All appetite had left his maw, And age disarm'd his mumbling jaw.
Seite 9 - If by your art, my dearest father, you have Put the wild waters in this roar, allay them : The sky, it seems, would pour down stinking pitch, But that the sea, mounting to the welkin's cheek, Dashes the fire out.