Veiled hearts, by the author of 'The wife's trials'.

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Стр. 211 - Now, just as the gates were opened to let in the men, I looked in after them, and behold the city shone like the sun ; the streets, also were paved with gold, and in them walked many men with crowns on their heads, palms in their hands, and golden harps, to sing praises withal. There were also of them that had wings, and they answered one another without intermission, saying, ' ' Holy, holy, holy, is the Lord.
Стр. 172 - Hyperion's curls, the front of Jove himself, An eye like Mars, to threaten and command, A station like the herald Mercury New-lighted on a heaven-kissing hill, A combination and a form indeed, Where every god did seem to set his seal, To give the world assurance of a man.
Стр. 180 - That fly th' approach of morn. Alas, regardless of their doom, The little victims play ! No sense have they of ills to come, Nor care beyond to-day. Yet see how all around them wait The ministers of human fate, And black Misfortune's baleful train, Ah, show them where in ambush stand To seize their prey, the...
Стр. 214 - Was as a mockery of the tomb, Whose tints as gently sunk away As a departing rainbow's ray; An eye of most transparent light, That almost made the dungeon bright, And not a word of murmur — not A groan o'er his untimely lot...
Стр. 249 - SUCH wayward ways hath Love, that most part in discord Our wills do stand, whereby our hearts but seldom do accord. Deceit is his delight, and to beguile and mock The simple hearts, which he doth strike with froward diverse stroke.
Стр. 236 - Those lips are thine — thy own sweet smile I see, The same, that oft in childhood solaced me ; Voice only fails, else how distinct they say, 'Grieve not, my child, chase all thy fears away...
Стр. 36 - And he that spares, ne'er mote he thee." They ranted, drank, and merry made, Till all his gold it waxed thinne ; And then his friendes they slunk away ; They left the unthrifty heire of Linne. He had never a penny left in his purse, Never a penny left but three, And one was brass, another was lead, And another it was white money.
Стр. 103 - There is a deep nick in time's restless wheel For each man's good, when which nick comes, it strikes, As rhetoric, yet works not persuasion, But only is a mean to make it work : So no man riseth by his real merit, But when it cries clink in his raiser's spirit.
Стр. 142 - Tis the wretch who tempts him to subvert it, The soothing slave, the traitor in the bosom, Who best deserves that name ; he is a worm That eats out all the happiness of kingdoms.

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