Liber Amoris: Or, The New Pygmalion

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G. Routledge & son, Limited, 1823 - Authors, English - 130 pages

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An epistolary novel featuring an overwrought stalker as the butt of its joke. Is that how it played then, I wonder? Read full review

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Page 94 - The treasures of the deep are not so precious As are the conceal'd comforts of a man Locked up in woman's love. I scent the air Of blessings, when I come but near the house. What a delicious breath marriage sends forth. The violet bed's not sweeter.
Page 77 - Daisies," by Bliss Carman QERFECT love has this advantage in it, that it leaves the possessor of it nothing farther to desire. There is one object (at least) in which the soul finds absolute content, for which it seeks to live, or dares to die. The heart has, as it were, filled up the moulds of the imagination. The truth of passion keeps pace with and outvies the extravagance of mere language. There are no words so fine, no flattery so soft, that there is not a sentiment beyond them, that it is impossible...
Page 94 - Now for a welcome Able to draw men's envies upon man : A kiss now that will hang upon my lip, As sweet as morning dew upon a rose, And full as long...
Page 53 - ... faith on which I built my trust. She came (I knew not how) and sat by my side and was folded in my arms, a vision of love and joy, as if she had dropped from the Heavens to bless me by some especial dispensation of a favouring Providence, and make me amends for all...
Page 56 - I do my own soul ; my very heart is wedded to her (be she what she may) and I would not hesitate a moment between her and "an angel from Heaven.
Page 28 - What is this world? — what asken men to have? Now with his love, now in his colde grave — Alone — withouten any company.
Page 125 - ... pale, cold form glide silent by me, dead to shame as to pity. Still I seemed to clasp this piece of witchcraft to my bosom ; ~ this lifeless image, which was all that was left of my love, was the only thing to which my sad heart clung. Were she dead, should I not wish to gaze once more upon her pallid features ? She is dead to me ; but what she once was to me, can never die...
Page 124 - She, who had been beguiled,— she, who was made Within a gentle bosom to be laid, — To bless and to be blessed,— to be heart-bare To one who found his bettered likeness there, — To think for ever with him, like a bride, — To haunt his eye, like taste personified, — To double his delight, to share his sorrow, And like a morning beam, to wake him every morrow.
Page 4 - I never heard you say so but once ; but that was once too often for my peace. It was when you told me, 'you could never be mine.' Ah! if you are never to be mine, I shall not long be myself. I cannot go on as I am. My faculties leave me : I think of nothing, I have no feeling about anything but thee : thy sweet image has taken possession of me, haunts me, and will drive me to distraction.
Page 64 - I was at Roslin Castle yesterday. It lies low in a rude but sheltered valley, hid from the vulgar gaze, and powerfully reminds one of the old song. The straggling fragments of the russet ruins, suspended smiling and graceful in the air as if they would linger out another century to please the curious beholder, the green larch trees trembling...

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