Tales of an Antiquary: Chiefly Illustrative of the Manners, Traditions, and Remarkable Localities of Ancient London, Том 2

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Стр. 115 - The noise in it is like that of bees, a strange humming or buzz mixed of walking tongues and feet; it is a kind of still roar or loud whisper.
Стр. 116 - The visitants are all men without exceptions, but the principal inhabitants and possessors are stale knights and captains out of service; men of long rapiers and breeches, which after all turn merchants here and traffic for news.
Стр. 115 - ... than faces. It is the market of young lecturers, whom you may cheapen here at all rates and sizes. It is the general mint of all famous lies, which are here like the legends of popery, first coined and stamped in the church. All inventions are emptied here, and not few pockets. The best sign of a temple in it is, that it is the thieves...
Стр. 114 - It is more than this, the whole world's map, which you may here discern in its perfectest motion, justling and turning. It is a heap of stones and men, with a vast confusion of languages; and were the steeple not sanctified, nothing liker Babel.
Стр. 201 - Lo, these are parts of his ways: but how little a portion is heard of him?
Стр. 125 - Then thou behold'st the vanity Of worldly stuff, Gone with a puff: Thus think, and smoke tobacco.
Стр. 37 - Her mind," says her witty god-son, Sir John Harrington, who had experienced both the smiles and the frowns which he describes, "was ofttime like the gentle air, that cometh from the western point in a summer's morn — 'twas sweet and refreshing to all around her. Her speech did win all affections. And again, she could put forth such alterations, when obedience was lacking, as left no doubting whose daughter she was.
Стр. 117 - By the struggling moonbeam's misty light And the lantern dimly burning. No useless coffin enclosed his breast, Not in sheet nor in shroud we wound him ; But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, With his martial cloak around him.
Стр. 264 - And the river runs merrily by. Our mother, the world, — a good mother is she, Says to toil is to welcome her fare ; Some bounty she hangs us on every tree, And blesses us in the sweet air. Oh ! come, brothers, arouse, &c. And this is the life for a man, a man, And this is the life for me : The prince may boast, if he can, he can ; But he never was half so free. Our mother, the world — a good mother is she. Says to toil is to welcome her fare ; Some bounty she hangs us on every tree, And blesses...
Стр. 153 - Then here I'll sit, and sigh my hot love's folly, And learn to affect an holy melancholy: And if contentment be a stranger then, I'll ne'er look for it, but in heaven, again.

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