Preciosa: A Tale

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J. Chapman, 1852 - 326 oldal
 

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257. oldal - Alas that all we loved of him should be, But for our grief, as if it had not been, And grief itself be mortal ! Woe is me ! Whence are we, and why are we ? of what scene The actors or spectators ? Great and mean Meet massed in death, who lends what life must borrow.
8. oldal - Too subtle-potent, tun'd too sharp in sweetness, For the capacity of my ruder powers : I fear it much ; and I do fear besides, That I shall lose distinction in my joys ; As doth a battle, when they charge on heaps The enemy flying.
173. oldal - tis not to come ; if it be not to come, it will be now ; if it be not now, yet it will come ; the readiness is all ; since no man has aught of what he leaves, what is't to leave betimes?
238. oldal - Count, take of me my daughter, and with her my fortunes : his Grace hath made the match, and all grace say Amen to it. Beat. Speak, count, 'tis your cue. Claud. Silence is the perfectest herald of joy : I were but little happy, if I could say how much.
5. oldal - Clanging fights, and flaming towns, and sinking ships and praying hands. But they smile, they find a music centred in a doleful song Steaming up, a lamentation and an ancient tale of wrong, Like a tale of little meaning tho...
81. oldal - My soul is an enchanted boat, Which, like a sleeping swan, doth float Upon the silver waves of thy sweet singing ; And thine doth like an angel sit Beside the helm conducting it, Whilst all the winds with melody are ringing. It seems to float ever, for ever, Upon that many-winding river, Between mountains, woods, abysses, A paradise of wildernesses ! Till, like one in slumber bound Borne to the ocean, I float down, around, Into a sea profound of ever-spreading sound.

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