Archiv für das Studium der neueren Sprachen und Literaturen, Volume 2

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Westermann, 1847 - Languages, Modern
Vols. for 1858- include "Sitzungen der Berliner Gesellschaft für das Studium der neuren Sprachen."

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Page 333 - But is there no quick recreation granted? King. Ay, that there is : our court, you know, is haunted With a refined traveller of Spain; A man in all the world's new fashion planted, That hath a mint of phrases in his brain : One, whom the music of his own vain tongue Doth ravish, like enchanting harmony...
Page 334 - Jug, jug, jug, jug, tereu ! she cries, And still her woes at midnight rise. Brave prick-song ! Who is't now we hear ? None but the lark so shrill and clear ; Now at heaven's gate she claps her wings, The morn not waking till she sings. Hark, hark, with what a pretty throat Poor robin redbreast tunes his note : Hark how the jolly cuckoos sing Cuckoo...
Page 334 - Growing on's cheek (but none knows how), With these, the crystal of his brow, And then the dimple of his chin; All these did my Campaspe win. At last he set her both his eyes, She won, and Cupid blind did rise. O Love! has she done this to thee? What shall, alas! become of me? THE SONGS OF BIRDS What bird so sings, yet so does wail? O 'tis the ravished nightingale. 'Jug, jug, jug, jug, tereu,' she cries, And still her woes at midnight rise.
Page 345 - The seat of desolation, void of light, Save what the glimmering of these livid flames Casts pale and dreadful ? Thither let us tend...
Page 320 - AH ! were she pitiful as she is fair, Or but as mild as she is seeming so, Then were my hopes greater than my despair, Then all the world were heaven, nothing woe. Ah ! were her heart relenting as her hand, That seems to melt even with the mildest touch, Then knew I where to seat me in a land, Under wide heavens, but yet there is not such.
Page 334 - At cards for kisses; Cupid paid; He stakes his quiver, bow and arrows, His mother's doves, and team of sparrows ; Loses them too; then down he throws The coral of his lip, the rose Growing on's cheek (but none knows how) ; With these, the crystal of his brow, And then the dimple of his chin.
Page 339 - Turn I my looks unto the skies, Love with his arrows wounds mine eyes; If so I gaze upon the ground, Love then in every flower is found. Search I the shade to fly my pain, He meets me in the shade again; Wend I to walk in secret grove, Even there I meet with sacred love.
Page 335 - His David and Bethsabe is the earliest fountain of pathos and harmony that can be traced in our dramatic poetry.
Page 230 - tis strange : And oftentimes, to win us to our harm, The instruments of darkness tell us truths : Win -us with honest trifles, to betray us In deepest consequence.
Page 276 - Retire-toi coquin ; va pourrir loin d'ici ; II ne t'appartient pas de m'approcher ainsi.

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