The Reminiscences of an Idler

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Fords, Howard, & Hulbert, 1880 - 596 Seiten
 

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Seite 37 - Grace was in all her steps. Heaven in her eye, In every gesture dignity and love.
Seite 477 - TERESA : — I have read this book in your garden; my love, you were absent, or else I could not have read it. It is a favourite book of yours, and the writer was a friend of mine. You will not understand these English words, and others will not understand them — which is the reason I have not scrawled them in Italian.
Seite 216 - Look, where he comes ! Not poppy, nor mandragora, Nor all the drowsy syrups of the world, Shall ever medicine thee to that sweet sleep Which thou ow'dst yesterday.
Seite 319 - I have kissed I know not how oft. Where be your gibes now? your gambols? your songs? your flashes of merriment, that were wont to set the table on a roar? Not one now, to mock your own grinning? quite chapfallen? Now get you to my lady's chamber, and tell her, let her paint an inch thick, to this favour she must come; make her laugh at that. Prithee, Horatio, tell me one thing. Hor. What's that, my lord? Ham. Dost thou think Alexander looked o' this fashion i
Seite 177 - Mont Blanc is the monarch of mountains, They crowned him long ago On a throne of rocks, in a robe of clouds, With a diadem of snow.
Seite 296 - Know'st thou the land where the lemon-trees bloom ? Where the gold orange glows in the deep thicket's gloom ? Where a wind ever soft from the blue heaven blows, And the groves are of laurel and myrtle and rose ? Know'st thou it ? Thither ! O thither, My dearest and kindest, with thee would I go.
Seite 257 - How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank! Here will we sit, and let the sounds of music Creep in our ears: soft stillness and the night Become the touches of sweet harmony. Sit, Jessica. Look, how the floor of heaven Is thick inlaid with patines...
Seite 347 - If you can look into the seeds of time, And say, which grain will grow, and which will not, Speak then to me, who neither beg, nor fear, Your favours, nor your hate.
Seite 444 - He left the name, at which the world grew pale, To point a moral, or adorn a tale.
Seite 319 - A blank, my lord. She never told her love, But let concealment, like a worm i' the bud, Feed on her damask cheek : she pined in thought, And with a green and yellow melancholy She sat like patience on a monument, Smiling at grief.

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