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Page 454 - But earthlier happy is the rose distill'd Than that which, withering on the virgin thorn, Grows, lives, and dies in single blessedness.
Page 314 - He tugged, he shook, till down they came, and drew The whole roof after them with burst of thunder Upon the heads of all who sat beneath, Lords, ladies, captains, counsellors...
Page 463 - I pronounced it to you, trippingly on the tongue : but if you mouth it, as many of our players do, I had as lief the town-crier spoke my lines. Nor do not saw the air too much with your hand, thus ; but use all gently : for in the very torrent, tempest, and (as I may say) whirlwind of your passion, you must acquire and beget a temperance, that may give it smoothness.
Page 21 - O gin my love were yon red rose That grows upon the castle wa', And I mysel' a drap o' dew, Into her bonnie breast to fa' ! Oh, there beyond expression blest. I'd feast on beauty a' the night ; Seal'd on her silk-saft faulds to rest, Till fley'd awa' by Phoebus
Page 459 - Hyperion's curls, the front of Jove himself, An eye like Mars, to threaten and command, A station like the herald Mercury New-lighted on a heaven-kissing hill, A combination and a form indeed, Where every god did seem to set his seal, To give the world assurance of a man.
Page 336 - Scots in no way differ from the Britons in their behaviour ; for Bishop Dagan coming to us, not only refused to eat with us, but even to take his repast in the same house where we were entertained.
Page 460 - He took me by the wrist and held me hard ; Then goes he to the length of all his arm, And with his other hand thus o'er his brow, He falls to such perusal of my face As he would draw it.
Page 174 - Come one to one, ye coward knaves — come hand to hand and steed to steed; I would that ye were better men, for this is glorious work indeed !" Before you could have counted twelve, the tinkler's wondrous chivalrye had both the squires upon the sward, and their horses galloping o'er the lea. The tinkler tied them neck and heel, and mony a biting jest gave he...
Page 498 - tis where yon woods are waving, In their dark richness, to the summer air ; Where yon blue stream, a thousand flower-banks laving, Leads down the hills a vein of light, — 'tis there! 'Midst those green wilds how many a fount lies gleaming, Fringed with the violet, colour'd with the skies ! My boyhood's haunt, through days of summer dreaming. Under young leaves that shook with melodies.