Punch, 112-113. kötet

Első borító
Henry Mayhew, Mark Lemon, Tom Taylor, Shirley Brooks, Francis Cowley Burnand, Owen Seaman
Punch Publications Limited, 1897

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78. oldal - The isles of Greece, the isles of Greece ! Where burning Sappho loved and sung, Where grew the arts of war and peace, Where Delos rose, and Phoebus sprung ! Eternal summer gilds them yet, But all, except their sun, is set.
13. oldal - Be of good comfort, master Ridley, and play the man. We shall this day light such a candle, by God's grace, in England, as I trust shall never be put out.
13. oldal - In the silence of the night, How we shiver with affright At the melancholy menace of their tone! For every sound that floats From the rust within their throats Is a groan.
127. oldal - ... explained by a resolution of the 23rd February 1688, "they are introduced to the table between two members, making their obeisances as they go up, that they may be the better known to the...
199. oldal - THERE WAS A MAN IN OUR TOWN. There was a man in our town, And he was wondrous wise ; He jumped into a bramble bush, And scratched out both his eyes : And when he saw his eyes were out, With all his might and main He jumped into another bush, And scratched them in again.
173. oldal - BY SARAH GRAND In One Volume, price 6s. Punch. — 'The heroine of The Beth Book is one of Sarah Grand's most fascinating creations. With such realistic art is her life set forth that, for a while, the reader will probably be under the impression that he has before him the actual story of a wayward genius compiled from her genuine diary. The story is absorbing ; the truth to nature in the characters, whether virtuous, ordinary, or vicious, every reader with some experience will recognise.
48. oldal - Trust not for freedom to the Franks They have a king who buys and sells; In native swords, and native ranks, The only hope of courage dwells: But Turkish force, and Latin fraud, Would break your shield, however broad.
122. oldal - From wandering on a foreign strand ? If such there breathe, go mark him well; For him no minstrel raptures swell; High though his titles, proud his name, Boundless his wealth as wish can claim; Despite those titles, power, and pelf, The wretch concentred all in self, Living, shall forfeit fair renown, And, doubly dying, shall go down To the vile dust from whence he sprung, Unwept, unhonored, and unsung.
122. oldal - Breathes there a man, with soul so dead, Who never to himself has said, This is my own, my native land!

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