The history of Portia: Written by a lady. ...

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printed for R. Withy; J. Pottinger; J. Wilkie; and J. Cooke, 1759
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Page 68 - Methinks, we need not our short beings shun, And, thought to fly, contend to be undone. We need not buy our ruin with our crime, And give eternity to murder time. The love of gaming is the worst of ills ; With ceaseless storms the blacken'd soul it fills ; 1 Shakespeare VOL.
Page 43 - Tis not a set of features, or complexion, The tincture of a skin that I admire. Beauty soon grows familiar to the lover, Fades in his eye, and palls upon the sense.
Page iv - s quite deform'd ! And yet the case is clear ; What's female beauty, but an air divine, Through which the mind's all gentle graces shine ? They, like the sun, irradiate all between ; The body charms because the soul is seen. Hence, men are often captives of a face, They know not why, of no peculiar grace : Some forms, though bright, no mortal man can bear ; Some, none resist, though not exceeding fair.
Page 220 - Grateful digressions, and solve high dispute With conjugal caresses : from his lip Not words alone pleas'd her. O! when meet now Such pairs, in love and mutual honour join'd...
Page 75 - O faireft of creation, laft and beft Of all God's works, Creature in whom excell'd Whatever can to fight or thought be form'd, Holy, divine, good, amiable, or fweet! How art thou loft, how on a...
Page 123 - Secure to be as bleft as thou canft bear : Safe in the hand of one difpofing Pow'r, Or in the natal, or the mortal hour.
Page 19 - Too ftrong for feeble women to fuftain ; Of thofe who claim it, more than half have none, And half of thofe who have it, are undone. Be ftill fuperior to your fex's arts, Nor think...
Page 220 - d by her fair tendence gladlier grew. Yet went fhe not, as not with fuch difcourfe Delighted, or not capable her ear Of what was high : fuch pleafure...
Page 68 - With ceaseless storms the blacken'd soul it fills ; Inveighs at heaven, neglects the ties of blood ; Destroys the power and will of doing good ; Kills health, pawns honour, plunges in disgrace, And, what is still more dreadful — spoils your face.
Page 133 - All fame is foreign, but of true defert ; Plays round the head,, but comes not to the heart...

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