Continental Adventures: A Novel ...

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Wells and Lilly, 1826
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78. oldal - She that has that is clad in complete steel ; And, like a quiver'd nymph, with arrows keen, May trace huge forests, and unharbour'd heaths, Infamous hills, and sandy perilous wilds, Where, through the sacred rays of chastity, No savage fierce, bandit, or mountaineer, Will dare to soil her virgin purity...
52. oldal - O'er other creatures. Yet when I approach Her loveliness, so absolute she seems And in herself complete, so well to know Her own, that what she wills to do or say, Seems wisest, virtuousest, discreetest, best.
283. oldal - Kept the word of promise to the ear, But broke it to the hope.
78. oldal - Chi va lontan da la sua patria, vede cose, da quel che già credea, lontane; che narrandole poi, non se gli crede, e stimato bugiardo ne rimane: che '1 sciocco vulgo non gli vuol dar fede, se non le vede e tocca chiare e piane.
184. oldal - Ah me ! for aught that ever I could read, Could ever hear by tale or hiftory, The courfe of true love never did run fmooth : But, either it was different in blood ; Her. O crofs ! too high to be enthrall'd to low ! Lyf.
196. oldal - Not to a rage : patience and sorrow strove Who should express her goodliest. You have seen Sunshine and rain at once : her smiles and tears
70. oldal - Pleasures are few, and fewer we enjoy ; Pleasure, like quicksilver, is bright, and coy; We strive to grasp it with our utmost skill, Still it eludes us, and it glitters still : If seiz'd at last, compute your mighty gains ; What is it, but rank poison in your veins...
162. oldal - Ay, now am I in Arden; the more fool I; when I was at home, I was in a better place : but travelers must be content.
53. oldal - Though higher of the genial bed by far, And with mysterious reverence I deem, So much delights me, as those graceful acts, Those thousand decencies that daily flow From all her words and actions...
1. oldal - Bears me remote, o'er Gallia's woody bounds, O'er the cloud-piercing Alps remote ; beyond The vale of Arno purpled with the vine, Beyond the Umbrian and Etruscan hills, To Latium's wide champain, forlorn and waste, Where yellow Tiber his neglected wave Mournfully rolls.

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