The New monthly belle assemblée, Volume 23

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Page 128 - Her favourite science was the mathematical, Her noblest virtue was her magnanimity, Her wit (she sometimes tried at wit) was Attic all, Her serious sayings darken'd to sublimity; In short, in all things she was fairly what I call A prodigy- her morning dress was dimity, Her evening silk, or, in the summer, muslin, And other stuffs, with which I won't stay puzzling. She knew the Latin- that is, 'the Lord's prayer...
Page 128 - Oh! she was perfect, past all parallel — Of any modern female saint's comparison; So far above the cunning powers of hell, Her guardian angel had given up his garrison: Even her minutest motions went as well As those of the best time-piece made by Harrison. In virtues nothing earthly could surpass her, Save thine 'incomparable oil,
Page 101 - Where no misgiving is, rely Upon the genial sense of youth : Glad hearts, without reproach or blot; Who do thy work and know it not; Oh!
Page 128 - s to come Well, to renew : x.1 His mother was a learned lady, famed For every branch of every science known — In every Christian language ever named, With virtues equalled by her wit alone : She made the cleverest people quite ashamed, And even the good with inward envy groan, Finding themselves so very much exceeded, In their own way, by all the things that she did.
Page 113 - tis sometimes sweet to have our quarrels, Particularly with a tiresome friend: Sweet is old wine in bottles, ale in barrels; Dear is the helpless creature we defend Against the world: and dear the schoolboy spot We ne'er forget, though there we are forgot. CXXVII But sweeter still than this, than these, than all, Is first and passionate love— it stands alone, Like Adam's recollection of his fall...
Page 66 - Her hair, I said, was auburn; but her eyes Were black as death, their lashes the same hue, Of downcast length, in whose silk shadow lies Deepest attraction; for when to the view Forth from its raven fringe the full glance flies, Ne'er with such force the swiftest arrow flew; 'Tis as the snake late coil'd, who pours his length, And hurls at once his venom and his strength.
Page 342 - tis a lost fear; Man but a rush against Othello's breast, And he retires. — Where should Othello go? Now, how dost thou look now? O ill-starr'd wench! Pale as thy smock! when we shall meet at compt, This look of thine will hurl my soul from heaven, And fiends will snatch at it.
Page 134 - I have no hope in loving thee, I only ask to love ; I brood upon my silent heart, As on its nest the dove. But little have I been beloved, Sad, silent, and alone : And yet I feel, in loving thee, The wide world is mine own. Thine is the name I breathe to Heaven, Thy face is on my sleep ; I only ask that love like this May pray for thee and weep.
Page 175 - Oh ! what a world of beauty A loving heart might plan — If man but did his duty, And helped his brother man ! A SKETCH.
Page 4 - Favours to none, to all she smiles extends ; Oft she rejects, but never once offends. Bright as the sun, her eyes the gazers strike, And, like the sun, they shine on all alike.

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