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ADRIANA AESWYN amongst answer arms ARTEVELDE bear better blood BOSCH bring brought Bruges CAPTAIN cause citizens CLARA comes D'ARLON death door EARL Enter Exeunt Exit eyes fair fall father fear feel fight Flanders follow friends gates Ghent GILBERT MATTHEW give hand hast hath head hear heard heart Heaven highness hold honour hope hour hundred John keep knights lady leave less light live look Lord of Occo Master meet mind mounts MUCK never once pardon pass past peace Philip PHILIP VAN ARTEVELDE poetry poor SCENE SIR GUISEBERT GRUTT soul speak stand sure sword tell thank thee There's thine things thou thought town true trust truth VAN DEN BOSCH wait White-Hoods WOMAN
Page xl - ... fruit thereof is uncertain, and consequently no culture of the earth, no navigation nor use of the commodities that may be imported by sea, no commodious building, no instruments of moving and removing such things as require much force, no knowledge of the face of the earth; no account of time, no arts, no letters, no society, and, which is worst of all, continual fear and danger of violent death, and the life of man solitary, poor, nasty, brutish, and short.
Page xix - ... of masculine judgment, would certainly excite no sentiment of admiration, even if they did not provoke contempt. When the conduct and feelings attributed to them are reduced into prose, and brought to the test of a rational consideration, they must be perceived to be beings in whom there is no strength except that of their intensely selfish passions, — in whom all is vanity; their exertions being for vanity under the name of love or revenge, and their sufferings for vanity under the name of...
Page 171 - There lies a sleeping city, God of dreams ! What an unreal and fantastic world Is going on below ! Within the sweep of yon encircling wall How many a large creation of the night, Wide wilderness and mountain, rock and sea, Peopled with busy, transitory groups, Finds room to rise, and never feels the crowd.
Page 8 - In truth, To mould denial to a pleasing shape In all things, and most specially in love, Is a hard task ; alas ! I have not wit From such a sharp and waspish word as " no
Page 53 - tis ignoble to have led my life In idle meditations — that the times Demand me, echoing my father's name ? Oh ! what a fiery heart was his ! such souls Whose sudden visitations daze the world, Vanish like lightning, but they leave behind A voice that in the distance far away Wakens the slumbering ages. Oh ! my father ! Thy life is eloquent, and more persuades Unto dominion than thy death deters ; For that reminds me of a debt of blood Descended with my patrimony to me, Whose paying off would clear...
Page xii - ... to turn what they saw to account. It did not belong to poetry, in their apprehension, to thread the mazes of life in all its classes and under all its circumstances, common as well as romantic, and, seeing all things, to infer and to instruct : on the contrary, it was to stand aloof from- everything that is plain and true ; to have little concern with what is rational or wise ; it was to be, like music, a moving and enchanting art, acting upon the fancy, the affections, the passions, but scarcely...
Page xiv - Yet this impulse is losing its force, and even Lord Byron himself repudiated, in the latter years of his life, the poetical taste which he had espoused and propagated. The constitution of this writer's mind is not difficult to understand, and sufficiently explains the growth of his taste. Had he united a philosophical intellect to his peculiarly poetical temperament, he would probably have been the greatest poet of his age.
Page 133 - Of your ill fortunes, telling on their fingers The worthy leaders ye have lately lost. True, they were worthy men, most gallant chiefs ; And ill would it become us to make light Of the great loss we suffer by their fall. They died like heroes ; for no recreant step Had e'er dishonour'd them, no stain of fear, No base despair, no cowardly recoil.
Page 135 - Sirs ! look round you lest ye be deceived ; Forgiveness may be spoken with the tongue, Forgiveness may be written with the pen, But think not that the parchment and mouth pardon Will e'er eject old hatreds from the heart. There's that betwixt you been which men remember Till they forget themselves, till all's forgot, Till the deep sleep falls on them in that bed From which no morrow's mischief knocks them up.
Page 41 - Whose story is a fragment, known to few. Then comes the man who has the luck to live, And he's a prodigy. Compute the chances, And deem there's ne'er a one in dangerous times Who wins the race of glory, but than him A thousand men more gloriously endowed Have fallen upon the course ; a thousand others Have had their fortunes foundered by a chance, Whilst lighter barks pushed past them ; to whom add A smaller tally of the singular few, Who, gifted with predominating powers, Bear yet a temperate will,...