De Clifford: Or, The Constant Man, Volume 3

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Lea and Blanchard, 1841 - England

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Page 287 - gainst that season comes Wherein our Saviour's birth is celebrated, The bird of dawning singeth all night long : And then, they say, no spirit dare stir abroad ; The nights are wholesome ; then no planets strike, No fairy takes, nor witch hath power to charm, So hallow'd and so gracious is the time.
Page 101 - The seasons' difference; as, the icy fang, And churlish chiding of the winter's wind; Which when it bites and blows upon my body, Even till I shrink with cold, I smile, and say,— This is no flattery: these are counsellors That feelingly persuade me what I am.
Page 266 - Twere now to be most happy, for I fear My soul hath her content so absolute That not another comfort like to this Succeeds in unknown fate.
Page 230 - I have heard That guilty creatures, sitting at a play, Have by the very cunning of the scene Been struck so to the soul that presently They have proclaim'd their malefactions; For murder, though it have no tongue, will speak With most miraculous organ.
Page 41 - Who could not win the mistress, woo'd the maid; Against the poets their own arms they turn'd, Sure to hate most the men from whom they learn'd. So modern 'pothecaries taught the art By doctors...
Page 234 - You stole her from me ; like a thief you stole her, At dead of night ; that cursed hour you chose To rifle me of all my heart held dear. May all your joys in her prove false, like mine ! A sterile fortune, and a barren bed, Attend you both; continual discord make Your days and nights bitter, and grievous still : May the hard hand of a vexatious need Oppress and grind you ; till at last you find The curse of disobedience all your portion.
Page 133 - He that has light within his own clear breast, May sit i' the centre and enjoy bright day : But he that hides a dark soul and foul thoughts, Benighted walks under the mid-day sun ; Himself is his own dungeon.
Page 233 - The honour of my house, you've done me wrong. You may remember — for I now will speak, And urge its baseness— when you first came home From travel, with such hopes as made you...
Page 233 - Not hear me! by my sufferings, but you shall! My lord — my lord ! I'm not that abject wretch You think me. Patience ! where's the distance throws Me back so far, but I may boldly speak In right, though proud oppression will not hear me ? Pri.
Page 251 - That eagle's fate and mine are one, Which, on the shaft that made him die, Espied a feather of his own, Wherewith he wont to soar so high.

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