De Clifford, Or, the Constant Man, Volume 4

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Henry Colburn, 1841
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Page 220 - Ohy woman! lovely woman! nature made thee .To temper man : we had been brutes without you. Angels are painted fair, to look like you : There's in you all that we believe of Heaven, Amazing brightness, purity, and truth, Eternal joy, and everlasting love.
Page 272 - If it were now to die, Twere now to be most happy, for I fear My soul hath her content so absolute That not another comfort like to this Succeeds in unknown fate.
Page 47 - He that has light within his own clear breast, May sit i' the centre and enjoy bright day : But he that hides a dark soul and foul thoughts, Benighted walks under the mid-day sun ; Himself is his own dungeon.
Page 212 - I have heard That guilty creatures, sitting at a play, Have by the very cunning of the scene Been struck so to the soul that presently They have proclaim'd their malefactions; For murder, though it have no tongue, will speak With most miraculous organ.
Page 217 - The honour of my house ; you've done me wrong ; You may remember (for I now will speak, And urge its baseness) when you first came home From travel, with such hopes as made you...
Page 237 - Happy in this, she is not yet so old But she may learn ; happier than this, She is not bred so dull but she can learn; Happiest of all, is, that her gentle spirit Commits itself to yours to be directed, As from her lord, her governor, her king.
Page 308 - gainst that season comes Wherein our Saviour's birth is celebrated, The bird of dawning singeth all night long : And then, they say, no spirit dare stir abroad, The nights .are wholesome, then no planets strike, No fairy takes nor witch hath power to charm, So hallow'd and so gracious is the time.
Page 217 - I receiv'd you ; Courted, and sought to raise you to your merits : My house, my table, nay, my fortune too, My very self, was yours ; you might have...
Page 305 - Ev'n now, observant of the parting ray, Eyes the calm sun-set of thy various day ; Through fortune's cloud one truly great can see ; Nor fears to tell, that Mortimer is he.
Page 161 - em. Pol. This is the prettiest low-born lass, that ever Ran on the green-sward f : nothing she does, or seems, But smacks of something greater than herself; Too noble for this place.

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