The Works: The ambitious step-mother. Tamerlane. The fair penitent. Ulysses

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J. and R. Tonson, T. Osborne, 1766
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Page 276 - tis too late ; And yet my eyes take pleasure to behold thee ; Thou art their last dear object Mercy, Heav'n ! [ Dies.
Page 258 - Hence, from my sight ! thy father cannot bear thee ; Fly with thy infamy to some dark cell, Where, on the confines of eternal night, Mourning...
Page 236 - Within her breast, my breath perhaps may wake it. Could I but prosper there, I would not doubt My combat with that loud vain-glorious boaster.
Page 243 - Hast thou been forging to deceive my father ; To turn his heart against his wretched daughter, That Altamont and thou may share his wealth ? A wrong like this will make me ev'n forget The weakness of my sex. Oh, for a sword, To urge my vengeance on the villain's hand That forg'd the scroll ! Hor.
Page 117 - With nations numberless are cover'd o'er; Who, like a deluge, hide the face of earth, And leave no object in the vast horizon, But glitt'ring arms, and skies.
Page 224 - Oh, were they all like thee, men would adore 'em, And all the business of their lives be loving; The nuptial band should be the pledge of peace, And all domestic cares and quarrels cease ! The world should learn to love by virtuous rules. And marriage be no more the jest of fools.
Page 271 - tis too much for this offending wretch, This parricide, that murders with her crimes, Shortens her father's age, and cuts him off, Ere little more than half his years are number'd.
Page 145 - Moneses ; born of a race Royal, and great as thine. What art thou now then) The fate of war has set thee with the lowest ; And captives (like the subjects of the grave) Losing distinction, serve one common lord.
Page 118 - Asian world, From this important day expects a lord ; This day they hope an end of all their woes, Of tyranny, of bondage, and oppression, From our victorious emp'ror, Tamerlane.
Page 165 - This dull despair Is the soul's laziness. Rouse to the combat, And thou art sure to conquer. War shall restore thee; The sound of arms shall wake thy martial ardour, And cure this amorous sickness of thy soul, Begun by sloth, and nursed In too much ease.

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