The Dramatic Works of Sir Edward Bulwer Lytton ...

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Routledge, Warne, & Routledge, 1863 - 496 oldal
 

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147. oldal - That very hour — when passion, turned to wrath, Resembled hatred most — when thy disdain Made my whole soul a chaos — in that hour The tempters found me a revengeful tool For their revenge ! Thou hadst trampled on the worm — It turn'd and stung thee ! PAULINE.
225. oldal - The pen is mightier than the sword. Behold The arch-enchanter's wand ! itself a nothing ! But taking sorcery from the master-hand To paralyze the Caesars, and to strike The loud earth breathless ! Take away the sword ; States can be, saved without it ! (Looking on the clock.) 'Tis the hour ; Retire, sir.
131. oldal - Still left us youth and love ! We'd have no friends That were not lovers ; no ambition, save To excel them all in love ; we'd read no books That were not tales of love — that we might smile To think how poorly eloquence of words Translates the poetry of hearts like ours ' And when night came, amidst the breathless Heavens We'd guess what star should be our home when love Becomes immortal ; while the perfumed light Stole through the mists of alabaster lamps, And every air was heavy with the sighs...
238. oldal - When I am dust, my name shall, like a star, Shine through wan space, a glory — and a prophet Whereby pale seers shall from their aery towers Con all the ominous signs, benign or evil, That make the potent astrologue of kings. But shall the Future judge me by the ends That I have wrought, or by the dubious means Through which the stream of my renown hath run Into the...
146. oldal - Enter'd the breast of the wild-dreaming boy ; And from that hour I grew — what to the last I shall be — thine adorer ! Well ; this love, Vain, frantic, guilty, if thou wilt, became A fountain of ambition and bright hope ; I thought of tales that by the winter hearth Old gossips tell — how maidens sprung from Kings Have stoop'd from their high sphere ; how Love, like Death, Levels all ranks, and lays the shepherd's crook Beside the sceptre.
144. oldal - Claude ? (Melnotte makes a sign of assent.) Know you not then, Madam, that this young man is of poor though honest parents ? Know you not that you are wedded to my son, Claude Melnotte ? PAULINE. Your son ! hold — hold ! do not speak to me — (approaches Melnotte, and lays her hand on his arm) Is this a jest ? is it ? I know it is, only speak — one word — one look — one smile.
450. oldal - OLD King Cole was a merry old soul, And a merry old soul was he; He called for his pipe, and he called for his bowl, And he called for his fiddlers three.
239. oldal - And warn their sons against the glorious theft, Forgetful of the darkness which it broke. I have shed blood — but I have had no foes Save those the State had — if my wrath was deadly, Tis that I felt my country in my veins, And smote her sons as Brutus smote his own.
241. oldal - I recall the past — or had not set The prodigal treasures of the bankrupt soul In one slight bark upon the shoreless sea; The yoked steer, after his day of toil, Forgets the goad, and rests — to me alike Or day or night — Ambition has no rest! Shall I resign ? — who can resign himself ? For custom is ourself ; as drink and food Become our bone and flesh — the aliments Nurturing our nobler part, the mind — thoughts, dreams, Passions, and aims, in the revolving cycle Of the great alchemy...
201. oldal - Alas, my lord, [There is a brotherhood which calm-eyed reason Can wot not of betwixt despair and mirth. My birth-place mid the vines of sunny Provence, Perchance the stream that sparkles in my veins...

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