The Works: The ambitious step-mother. Tamerlane. The fair penitent. Ulysses

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J. and R. Tonson, T. Osborne, 1766
 

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278. oldal - tis too late ; And yet my eyes take pleasure to behold thee ; Thou art their last dear object Mercy, Heav'n ! [ Dies.
260. oldal - Hence, from my sight ! thy father cannot bear thee ; Fly with thy infamy to some dark cell, Where, on the confines of eternal night, Mourning...
238. oldal - Within her breast, my breath perhaps may wake it. Could I but prosper there, I would not doubt My combat with that loud vain-glorious boaster.
245. oldal - Hast thou been forging to deceive my father ; To turn his heart against his wretched daughter, That Altamont and thou may share his wealth ? A wrong like this will make me ev'n forget The weakness of my sex. Oh, for a sword, To urge my vengeance on the villain's hand That forg'd the scroll ! Hor.
119. oldal - With nations numberless are cover'd o'er; Who, like a deluge, hide the face of earth, And leave no object in the vast horizon, But glitt'ring arms, and skies.
226. oldal - Oh, were they all like thee, men would adore 'em, And all the business of their lives be loving; The nuptial band should be the pledge of peace, And all domestic cares and quarrels cease ! The world should learn to love by virtuous rules. And marriage be no more the jest of fools.
273. oldal - tis too much for this offending wretch, This parricide, that murders with her crimes, Shortens her father's age, and cuts him off, Ere little more than half his years are number'd.
147. oldal - Moneses ; born of a race Royal, and great as thine. What art thou now then) The fate of war has set thee with the lowest ; And captives (like the subjects of the grave) Losing distinction, serve one common lord.
120. oldal - Asian world, From this important day expects a lord ; This day they hope an end of all their woes, Of tyranny, of bondage, and oppression, From our victorious emp'ror, Tamerlane.
167. oldal - This dull despair Is the soul's laziness. Rouse to the combat, And thou art sure to conquer. War shall restore thee; The sound of arms shall wake thy martial ardour, And cure this amorous sickness of thy soul, Begun by sloth, and nursed In too much ease.

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