The British Theatre; Or, A Collection of Plays: Which are Acted at the Theatres Royal, Drury Lane, Covent Garden, and Haymarket ...

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Mrs. Inchbald
Longman, Hurst, Rees, and Orme, 1808

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9. oldal - A sterile fortune, and a barren bed, Attend you both; continual discord make Your days and nights bitter and grievous: still May the hard hand of a vexatious need Oppress, and grind you; till at last you find The curse of disobedience all your portion.
16. oldal - Oh woman, lovely woman ! Nature made thee To temper man : we had been brutes without you ; Angels are painted fair, to look like you : There 's in you all that we believe of Heaven ; Amazing brightness, purity, and truth, Eternal joy, and everlasting love.
52. oldal - Polly. I have no excuse for my own behaviour, madam, but my misfortunes — and really, madam, I suffer too upon your account. Lucy. But, Miss Polly, in the way of friendship, will you give me leave to propose a glass of cordial to you ? Polly.
20. oldal - Yes, indeed, the sex is frail. But the first time a woman is frail, she should be somewhat nice, methinks, for then or never is the time to make her fortune. After that, she hath nothing to do but to guard herself from being found out, and she may do what she pleases.
59. oldal - That Jemmy Twitcher should peach me, I own surprised me! Tis a plain proof that the world is all alike, and that even our gang can no more trust one another than other people.
52. oldal - Mercy, kind Heaven, has surely endless stores Hoarded for thee of blessings yet untasted ; Let wretches loaded hard with guilt as I am, Bow...
61. oldal - If cold white mortals censure this great deed, Warn them, they judge not of superior beings, Souls made of fire, and children of the sun, With whom Revenge is virtue.
33. oldal - Let us drink and sport to-day, Ours is not to-morrow. Love with youth flies swift away, Age is nought but sorrow. Dance and sing, Time's on the wing, Life never knows the return of spring.
14. oldal - Burn ! First burn, and level Venice to thy ruin. What ! starve like beggars' brats in frosty weather, Under a hedge, and whine ourselves to death...
38. oldal - Should there, my friends, be found amongst us one False to this glorious enterprise, what fate, What vengeance were enough for such a villain ? Eliot. Death here without repentance, hell hereafter.

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