Headlong Hall: And, Nightmare Abbey

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Wiley and Putnam, 1845 - Всего страниц: 172
 

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Стр. 104 - Therefore rejoice, ye heavens, and ye that dwell in them. Woe to the inhabiters of the earth and of the sea ! for the devil is come down unto you, having great wrath, because he knoweth that he hath but a short time.
Стр. 47 - Though loud at first the pilgrim's passion grew, Sudden he gaz'd, and wist not what to do; Surprise in secret chains his words suspends, And in a calm his settling temper ends. But silence here the beauteous angel broke, The voice of music ravish'd as he spoke.
Стр. 98 - He now became troubled with the passion for reforming the world* He built many castles in the air, and peopled them with secret tribunals, and bands of illuminati, who were always the imaginary instruments of his projected regeneration of the human species.
Стр. 47 - Approach'd the careless guide, and thrust him in : Plunging he falls, and rising lifts his head ; Then flashing turns, and sinks among the dead ! Wild, sparkling rage inflames the Father's eyes, ^He bursts the bands of fear, and madly cries, 'Detested wretch...
Стр. 79 - He shakes his bag, he shows all fair : His fingers spread, and nothing there ; Then bids it rain with showers of gold ; And now his ivory eggs are told ; But when from thence the hen he draws, Amaz'd spectators hum applause.
Стр. 151 - Tis Jove's decree, In a bowl Care may not be ; In a bowl Care may not be. Fear ye not the waves that roll ? No : in charmed bowl we swim. What the charm that floats the bowl ? Water may not pass the brim. The bowl goes trim. The moon doth shine. And our ballast is old wine ; And your ballast is old wine.
Стр. 80 - By clean conveyance disappear; And now two bloody swords are there. A purse she to a thief exposed; At once his ready fingers closed. He opes his fist, the treasure's fled; He sees a halter in its stead.
Стр. 24 - Watch ye for ye know not the day nor the hour when the Son of Man cometh an impressive solemn discourse — [March] 14 Tuesday Evening [1848] Quite unwell last evening but about.
Стр. 90 - Oh, it's your only fine humour, sir; your true melancholy breeds your perfect fine wit, sir. I am melancholy myself, divers times, sir, and then do I no more but take pen and paper, presently, and overflow you half a score, or a dozen of sonnets at a sitting.
Стр. 147 - Cypress. Sir, I have quarrelled with my wife ; and a man who has quarrelled with his wife is absolved from all duty to his country. I have written an ode to tell the people as much, and they may take it as they list.

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