The Twentieth Century, 17. kötet

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Nineteenth Century and After, 1885

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343. oldal - This England never did, (nor never shall,) Lie at the proud foot of a conqueror, But when it first did help to wound itself. Now these her princes are come home again, Come the three corners of the world in arms, And we shall shock them : Nought shall make us rue, If England to itself do rest but true.
85. oldal - But that I love the gentle Desdemona, I would not my unhoused free condition Put into circumscription and confine For the sea's worth.
84. oldal - I am now indebted, as being a work not to be raised from the heat of youth or the vapours of wine, like that which flows at waste from the pen of some vulgar amorist or the trencher fury of a rhyming parasite, nor to be obtained by the invocation of Dame Memory and her siren daughters...
800. oldal - If you have tears, prepare to shed them now. You all do know this mantle: I remember The first time ever Caesar put it on; 'Twas on a summer's evening, in his tent; That day he overcame the Nervii : — Look ! In this place ran Cassius...
235. oldal - Whatever withdraws us from the power of our senses; whatever makes the past, the distant, or the future predominate over the present — advances us in the dignity of thinking beings.
704. oldal - MARTINE. Tout ce que vous prêchez est, je crois, bel et bon ; Mais je ne saurais, moi, parler votre jargon.
74. oldal - Nor blame it, readers, in those years to propose to themselves such a reward as the noblest dispositions above other things in this life have sometimes preferred: whereof not to be sensible when good and fair in one person meet, argues both a gross and shallow judgment, and withal an ungentle and swainish breast.
800. oldal - Have you the heart? When your head did but ache, I knit my handkerchief about your brows (The best I had, a princess wrought it me), And I did never ask it you again : And with my hand at midnight held your head ; And, like the watchful minutes to the hour, Still and anon cheer'd up the heavy time; Saying, What lack you? and, Where lies your grief?
73. oldal - Poesy! thou sweet'st content That e'er heaven to mortals lent: Though they as a trifle leave thee, Whose dull thoughts cannot conceive thee, Though thou be to them a scorn, That to nought but earth are born, Let my life no longer be Than I am in love with thee, Though our wise ones call thee madness, Let me never taste of gladness, If I love not thy mad'st fits More than all their greatest wits.
487. oldal - My function is that of the aesthetic, not the doctrinal teacher — the rousing of the nobler emotions, which make mankind desire the social right, not the prescribing of special measures, concerning which the artistic mind, however strongly moved by social sympathy, is often not the best judge.

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