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Altamont Arms ARTA XERXES Attendants bear Beauty behold Blood bring Cauſe comes common cruel curſe Danger dare Daughter dear Death Earth Empire Enter ev'n Eyes fair Faith Fame fatal Fate Father Fears Fire firſt forget Fortune Friend Friendſhip gentle give Gods Grief Guards Hand happy haſt Hate hear Heart Heav'n hold Honor Hopes HORATIO Hour Juſtice kind King laſt leave Light live loft Look Lord LOTHARIO Love mean meet MEMNON Mind MIRZA moſt muſt Name Nature never Night noble o'er once Pain Peace Pity Pleaſure Pow'r Power Prince Queen Rage Return Revenge Royal Ruin ſee ſhall ſhe ſhould Slave ſome Sorrows Soul ſtill ſuch Sword Tamerlane Tears TELEMACHUS tell thee theſe Thing thoſe thou art Thought turn Vengeance Virtue wait whoſe Wiſhes World worth wretched Wrongs Youth
278. oldal - tis too late ; And yet my eyes take pleasure to behold thee ; Thou art their last dear object Mercy, Heav'n ! [ Dies.
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.