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Pagina 102 - He that has light within his own clear breast, May sit i' th' 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.
Pagina 81 - Canst thou not minister to a mind diseased ; Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow ; Raze out the written troubles of the brain ; And, with some sweet, oblivious antidote, Cleanse the stuffed bosom of that perilous stuff, Which weighs upon the heart ? Doct.
Pagina 81 - My conscience hath a thousand several tongues, And every tongue brings in a several tale, And every tale condemns me for a villain. Perjury, perjury, in the high'st degree; Murder, stern murder, in the dir'st degree; All several sins, all us'd in each degree, Throng to the bar, crying all 'Guilty! guilty!
Pagina 179 - I have lived long enough : my way of life Is fall'n into the sear, the yellow leaf ; And that which should accompany old age, As honour, love, obedience, troops of friends, I must not look to have...
Pagina 17 - Nor wears a rosy blush, nor sheds perfume ; The few dull flowers that o'er the place are spread Partake the nature of their fenny bed; Here on its wiry stem, in rigid bloom, Grows the salt lavender that lacks perfume ; Here the dwarf sallows creep, the septfoil harsh, And the soft slimy mallow of the marsh ; Lmv on the ear the distant billows sound, And just in view appears their stony bound...
Pagina 162 - ' Dead ! ' said the startled lady ; ' Yes, he fell Close at the door where he was wont to dwell ; There his sole friend, the ass, was standing by, Half dead himself, to see his master die.
Pagina 145 - My wits begin to turn. — Come on, my boy : How dost, my boy ? Art cold ? I am cold myself. — Where is this straw, my fellow ? The art of our necessities is strange, That can make vile things precious.
Pagina 89 - Yet still there whispers the small voice within, Heard through Gain's silence, and o'er Glory's din : Whatever creed be taught or land be trod, Man's conscience is the oracle of God.
Pagina 149 - Almighty gods! if all we mortals want, If all we can require, be yours to grant; Make this fair statue mine (he would have said, But changed his words for shame; and only pray'd), Give me the likeness of my ivory maid.