Men and women; or, Manorial rights, by the author of 'The adventures of Susan Hopley'.

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Saunders and Otley, 1844

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50. oldal - Desiring this man's art, and that man's scope, With what I most enjoy contented least; Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising, Haply I think on thee, and then my state, Like to the lark at break of day arising From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate: For thy sweet love remembered such wealth brings That then I scorn to change my state with kings.
1. oldal - The sea of Fortune doth not ever flow, She draws her favours to the lowest ebb; Her tides have equal times to come and go, Her loom doth weave the fine and coarsest web; No joy so great but runneth to an end, No hap so hard but may in fine amend.
140. oldal - Good God ! how sweet are all things here ! How beautiful the fields appear ! How cleanly do we feed and lie ! Lord ! what good hours do we keep ! How quietly we sleep ! What peace, what unanimity ! How innocent from the lewd fashion, Is all our business, all our recreation...
140. oldal - FAEEWELL, thou busy world, and may We never meet again ; Here I can eat, and sleep, and pray, And do more good in one short day Than he who his whole age out-wears Upon the most conspicuous theatres, Where nought, but vanity and vice appears. a Good God ! how sweet are all things here...
273. oldal - THOUGH some make slight of libels, yet you may see by them how the wind sits : as take a straw and throw it up into the air, you shall see by that which way the wind is, which you shall not do by casting up a stone. More solid things do not show the complexion of the times so well as ballads and libels.
290. oldal - SWEET country life, to such unknown Whose lives are others', not their own ! But serving courts and cities, be Less happy, less enjoying thee. Thou never plough'st the ocean's foam To seek and bring rough pepper home ; Nor to the Eastern Ind dost rove To bring from thence the scorched clove ; Nor, with the loss of thy lov'd rest, Bring'st home the ingot from the West.
168. oldal - He was my comfort, and his mother's joy, The very arm that did hold up our house : Our hopes were stored up in him, None but a damned murderer could hate him.
154. oldal - I'll try; And, to revenge my slighted love, Will still love on and die. When kill'd with grief Amyntas lies, And you to mind shall call The sighs that now unpitied rise, The tears that vainly fall — That welcome hour, that ends...
299. oldal - Lodg'd in the grave, I am not yet at home : There rots but half of me, the other part Sleeps, Heaven knows where. 'Would she and I — my wife I mean, — but what, alas! talk I of wife? — The woman, 'would we had together fed On any outcast parings, coarse and mouldy, Not liv'd divided thus; I could have begg'd For both, for't had been pity she should ever Have felt so much extremity.
18. oldal - Tis she! that lovely air, that easy shape, those wanton eyes, and all those melting charms about her mouth, •which Medley spoke of. I'll follow the lottery, and put in for a prize with my friend Bellair.

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