Family Portraits: Or, Descendents of Trelawney

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W. Burnett, 1834 - English fiction - 472 pages
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Page 147 - These lips are mute, these eyes are dry ; But in my breast and in my brain, Awake the pangs that pass not by, The thought that ne'er shall sleep again.
Page 133 - I would not doubt My combat with that loud vain-glorious boaster. Were you, ye fair, but cautious whom ye trust, Did you but think how seldom fools are just, So many of your sex would not in vain Of broken vows, and faithless men, complain...
Page 3 - Unskilful he to fawn, or seek for power By doctrines fashion'd to the varying hour; Far other aims his heart had learn'd to prize, More bent to raise the wretched than to rise.
Page 396 - Perhaps (for who can guess th' effects of chance ?) Here Hunt may box, or Mahomet may dance. Hard is his lot that, here by Fortune plac'd, Must watch the wild vicissitudes of taste ; With every meteor of caprice must play, And chase the new-blown bubbles of the day. Ah ! let not Censure term our fate our choice, The stage but echoes back the public voice ; The drama's laws, the drama's patrons give, For we that live to please, must please to live.
Page 413 - Prithee, forgive me, I did but chide in jest; the best loves use it Sometimes ; it sets an edge upon affection : When we invite our best friends to a feast, 'Tis not all sweetmeats that we set before them ; There's somewhat sharp and salt, both to whet appetite And make 'em taste their wine well ; so, methinks, After a friendly, sharp, and savoury chiding, A kiss tastes wondrous well, and full o' the grape ; How think'st thou ? does't not ? {Kisses him.
Page 183 - There is a face whose blushes tell Affection's tale upon the cheek — But pallid at one fond farewell, Proclaims more love than words can speak. " There is a lip which mine hath prest, And none had ever prest before, It vowed to make me sweetly blest, And mine — mine only prest it more.
Page 443 - One is his printer in disguise, and keeps His press in a hollow tree, where to conceal him, He works by glow-worm light, the moon's too open.
Page 338 - None are supinely good : through care and pain, And various arts, the steep ascent we gain. This is the scene of combat, not of rest, Man's is laborious happiness at best; On this side death his dangers never cease, His joys are joys of conquest, not of peace.
Page 147 - FAREWELL! IF EVER FONDEST PRAYER FAREWELL! if ever fondest prayer For other's weal avail'd on high, Mine will not all be lost in air, But waft thy name beyond the sky. 'Twere vain to speak, to weep, to sigh : Oh ! more than tears of blood can tell, When wrung from guilt's expiring eye. Are in that word — Farewell ! — Farewell...
Page 228 - THE ENCHANTMENT I DID but look and love awhile, 'Twas but for one half-hour; Then to resist I had no will, And now I have no power. To sigh and wish is all my ease; Sighs which do heat impart Enough to melt the coldest ice, Yet cannot warm your heart. O would your pity give my heart One corner of your breast, 'Twould learn of yours the winning art, And quickly steal the rest.

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