The Antiquarian, Volume 1

Front Cover
E.W. Allen, 1871 - Archaeology
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p. 18 repeat of Peg Tankard-again clearer text.

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Page 30 - In my time my poor father was as diligent to teach me to shoot, as to learn me any other thing, and so I think other men did their children...
Page 47 - Full oft within the spacious walls, When he had fifty winters o'er him, My grave lord-keeper led the brawls ; The seal and maces danced before him. His bushy beard, and shoe-strings green, His high-crown'd hat, and satin doublet, Moved the stout heart of England's queen, Though Pope and Spaniard could not trouble it.
Page 26 - How sleep the brave, who sink to rest, By all their country's wishes blest ! When Spring, with dewy fingers cold, Returns to deck their hallowed mould, She there shall dress a sweeter sod Than Fancy's feet have ever trod.
Page 105 - Manoeuvres. 2s. Hand-book Dictionary for the Militia and Volunteer Services, Containing a variety of useful information, Alphabetically arranged. Pocket size, 3s.
Page 66 - Lofty and sour to them that loved him not, But to those men that sought him sweet as summer. And, though he were unsatisfied in getting (Which was a sin), yet in bestowing, madam, He was most princely. Ever witness for him Those twins of learning that he raised in you, Ipswich and Oxford...
Page 217 - There's gravel walks there For speculation And conversation In sweet solitude. 'Tis there the lover May hear the dove, or The gentle plover In the afternoon...
Page 41 - There is some soul of goodness in things evil, Would men observingly distil it out...
Page 26 - Sleep is a god too proud to wait in palaces, And yet so humble too, as not to scorn The meanest country cottages : His poppy grows among the corn. The halcyon sleep will never build his nest In any stormy breast. 'Tis not enough that he does find Clouds and darkness in the mind ; Darkness but half his work will do : 'Tis not enough ; he must find quiet too.
Page 87 - My prime of youth is but a frost of cares; My feast of joy is but a dish of pain; My crop of corn is but a field of tares; And all my good is but vain hope of gain. The day is fled, and yet I saw no sun; And now I live, and now my life is done.
Page 217 - Tis Lady Jeffers that owns this station ; Like Alexander, or Queen Helen fair, There's no commander in all the nation, For emulation, can with her compare. Such walls surround her, that no nine-pounder Could dare to plunder her place of strength ; But Oliver Cromwell her he did pommell, And made a breach in her battlement.

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