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Page 590 - twas wondrous pitiful : She wish'd she had not heard it ; yet she wish'd That heaven had made her such a man : she thank'd me; And bade me, if I had a friend that lov'd her, I should but teach him how to tell my story, And that would woo her. Upon this hint I spake"; She lov'd me for the dangers I had pass'd, And I lov'd her, that she did pity them.
Page 59 - Yet there happened in my time one noble speaker, who was full of gravity in his speaking. His language (where he could spare or pass by a jest) was nobly censorious. No man ever spake more neatly, more pressly, more weightily, or suffered less emptiness, less idleness, in what he uttered. No member of his speech but consisted of his own graces. His hearers could not cough, or look aside from him, without loss. He commanded where he spoke; and had his judges angry and pleased at his devotion.
Page 197 - Yet are thy skies as blue, thy crags as wild; Sweet are thy groves, and verdant are thy fields, Thine olive ripe as when Minerva smiled, And still his honied...
Page 62 - Thou must be patient; we came crying hither. Thou know'st, the first time that we smell the air, We wawl, and cry: — I will preach to thee; mark me. Glo. Alack, alack the day ! Lear. When we are born, we cry, that we are come To this great stage of fools...
Page 193 - Adieu, adieu ! my native shore Fades o'er the waters blue ; The night-winds sigh, the breakers roar, And shrieks the wild sea-mew. Yon sun that sets upon the sea We follow in his flight ; Farewell awhile to him and thee, My native Land — Good night...
Page 195 - For who would trust the seeming sighs Of wife or paramour ? Fresh feeres will dry the bright blue eyes We late saw streaming o'er. For pleasures past I do not grieve, Nor perils gathering near ; My greatest grief is that I leave No thing that claims a tear.
Page 195 - With thee, my bark, I'll swiftly go Athwart the foaming brine ; Nor care what land thou bear'st me to, So not again to mine.
Page 176 - How charming is divine philosophy ! Not harsh, and crabbed, as dull fools suppose, But musical as is Apollo's lute, And a perpetual feast of nectar'd sweets, Where no crude surfeit reigns.
Page 71 - The painter dead, yet still he charms the eye; While England lives, his fame can never die: But he who struts his hour upon the stage, Can scarce extend his fame for half an age; Nor pen nor pencil can the actor save, The art, and artist, share one common grave.
Page 476 - And the swallow's song in the eaves. His arms enclosed a blooming boy, Who listened, with tears of sorrow and joy, To the dangers his father had passed ; And his wife — by turns she wept and smiled, As she looked on the father of her child, Returned to her heart at last. — He wakes at the vessel's sudden roll, And the rush of waters is in his soul.