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Page 423 - Who is here so base, that would be a bondman? If any, speak; for him have I offended. Who is here so rude , that would not be a Roman? If any, speak; for him have I offended. Who is here so vile, that will not love his country? If any, speak; for him have I offended. I pause for a reply.
Page 394 - With a bare bodkin ? who would fardels bear, To grunt and sweat under a weary life ; But that the dread of something after death, — The undiscovered country, from whose bourn No traveller returns, — puzzles the will ; And makes us rather bear those ills we have, Than fly to others that we know not of? Thus conscience does make cowards of us all...
Page 408 - And he arose, and came to his father. But when he was yet a great way off, his father saw him, and had compassion, and ran, and fell on his neck, and kissed him.
Page 322 - For you bouquets and ribbon'd wreaths— for you the shores a-crowding, For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning; Here Captain! dear father! This arm beneath your head! It is some dream that on the deck, You've fallen cold and dead.
Page 397 - Let's dry our eyes ; and thus far hear me, Cromwell ; And when I am forgotten, as I shall be, And sleep in dull cold marble, where no mention Of me more must be heard of, say I taught thee...
Page 408 - And he, answering, said to his father, Lo, these many years do I serve thee; neither transgressed I at any time thy commandment; and yet thou never gavest me a kid, that I might make merry with my friends: 30.
Page 69 - Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!" I shrieked, upstarting "Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore ! Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken ! Leave my loneliness unbroken! quit the bust above my door! Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!
Page 112 - For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams Of the beautiful ANNABEL LEE ; And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes Of the beautiful ANNABEL LEE.
Page 92 - midst falling dew, While glow the heavens with the last steps of day, Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue Thy solitary way ? Vainly the fowler's eye Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong, As, darkly painted on the crimson sky, Thy figure floats along.