The Rival Sisters, with Other Poems

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Smith, Elder and Company, 1834 - 159 oldal

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157. oldal - It is not an open enemy that hath done me this " dishonour, for then I could have borne it. " Neither was it mine adversary that did magnify " himself against me : for then, peradventure, I would " have hid myself from him. "But it was even thou my companion, my guide, ''mine own familiar friend.
146. oldal - Death's tremendous blow. The knell, the shroud, the mattock, and the grave; The deep damp vault, the darkness, and the worm ; These are the bugbears of a winter's eve, The terrors of the living, not the dead.
27. oldal - Not poppy, nor mandragora, Nor all the drowsy syrups of the world, Shall ever medicine thee to that sweet sleep Which thou ow'dst yesterday.
27. oldal - All school-days' friendship, childhood innocence? We, Hermia, like two artificial gods, Have with our needles created both one flower, Both on one sampler, sitting on one cushion, Both warbling of one song, both in one key; As if our hands, our sides, voices...
17. oldal - What years, i' faith ? Vio. About your years, my lord. Duke. Too old, by heaven; let still the woman take An elder than herself ; so wears she to him, So sways she level in her husband's heart. For, boy, however we do praise ourselves, Our fancies are more giddy and unfirm, More longing, wavering, sooner lost and worn, Than women's are.
1. oldal - Island of bliss! amid the subject seas, That thunder round thy rocky coasts, set up, At once the wonder, terror, and delight, Of distant nations...
158. oldal - I say so, my lord. For I have read, that God made man, but that man can make God I never yet read: nor I suppose ever shall read it.
157. oldal - If I may trust the flattering eye of sleep, My dreams presage some joyful news at hand My bosom's -lord sits lightly on his throne, And all this day an unaccustom'd spirit Lifts me above the ground with cheerful thoughts.
146. oldal - Thine ear ia patient of a serious song. flow deep implanted in (he breast of man The dread of death '! I. sing its sovereign cure. Why start at Death ? where is he 1 Death arrived, Is past ; not come, or gone : he's never here. Ere hope, sensation fails. Black-boding man Receives, not suffers, Death's tremendous blow. The knell, the shroud, the mattock, and the grave ; The deep damp vault, the darkness, and the worm; These...
18. oldal - Of all defects with which frail man is curst, How oft a want of firmness proves the worst!

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