The modern British drama, Volume 1

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Page 132 - Tis less than to be born ; a lasting sleep ; A quiet resting from all jealousy, A thing we all pursue. I know, besides, It is but giving over of a game That must be lost.
Page 440 - Ohy woman! lovely woman! nature made thee .To temper man : we had been brutes without you. Angels are painted fair, to look like you : There's in you all that we believe of Heaven, Amazing brightness, purity, and truth, Eternal joy, and everlasting love.
Page 337 - Errors, like straws, upon the surface flow ; He who would search for pearls, must dive below.
Page 518 - And shoot a chillness to my trembling heart. Give me thy hand, and let me hear thy Voice; Nay, quickly speak to me, and let me hear Thy voice — my own affrights me with its echoes.
Page 440 - Thou mad'st me what I am, with all the spirit, Aspiring thoughts and elegant desires That fill the happiest man ? Ah ! rather why Didst thou not form me sordid as my fate, Base-minded, dull, and fit to carry burdens? Why have I sense to know the curse that's on me? Is this just dealing. Nature ? Belvidera ! Enter BELVIDERA.
Page 125 - I shall be willing, if not apt, to learn. Age and experience will adorn my mind With larger knowledge : and if I have done A wilful fault, think me not past all hope For once; what master holds so strict a hand Over his boy, that he will part with him Without one warning? Let me be corrected To break my stubbornness if it be so, Rather than turn me off, and I shall mend.
Page 358 - Heaven has but Our sorrow for our sins ; and then delights To pardon erring man : Sweet mercy seems Its darling attribute, which limits justice ; . • As if there were degrees in infinite, And infinite would rather want perfection,. * Than punish to extent, Ant.
Page 440 - Oh woman ! lovely woman ! Nature made thee To temper man : we had been brutes without you ! Angels are painted fair to look like you : There's in you all, that we believe of" heaven ; Amazing brightness, purity and truth, Eternal joy, and everlasting love.
Page 439 - Burn ! First burn, and level Venice to thy ruin. What ! starve like beggars' brats in frosty weather, Under a hedge, and whine ourselves to death ! Thou, or thy cause, shall never want assistance, Whilst I have blood or fortune fit to serve thee; Command my heart: thou art every way its master.
Page 8 - The fair-eyed maids shall weep our banishments, And in their songs curse ever-blinded Fortune, Till she for shame see what a wrong she has done To youth and nature. This is all our world : We shall know nothing here, but one another ; Hear nothing, but the clock that tells our woes. The vine shall grow, but we shall never see it : Summer shall come, and with her all delights, But dead-cold winter must inhabit here still.

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