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Pagina 249 - Cromwell, Cromwell, Had I but served my God with half the zeal I served my king, he would not in mine age Have left me naked to mine enemies.
Pagina 295 - And I saw a great white throne, and him that sat on it, from whose face the earth and the heaven fled away, and there was found no place for them. And I saw the dead, small and great, stand before God, and the books were opened ; and another book was opened, which is the book of life; and the dead were judged out of those things which were written in the books, according to their works.
Pagina 249 - Is that poor man, that hangs on princes' favours. There is, betwixt that smile we would aspire to, That sweet aspect of princes, and their ruin, More pangs and fears than wars or women have ; And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer, Never to hope again.
Pagina 245 - He was a scholar, and a ripe, and good one; Exceeding wise, fair spoken, and persuading: Lofty and sour, to them that loved him not; But, to those men that sought him, sweet as summer. And though he were unsatisfied in getting, (Which was a sin) yet in bestowing, madam, He was most princely: Ever witness for him Those twins of learning, that he raised in you, Ipswich and Oxford! One of which fell with him, Unwilling to outlive the good that d^id it; The other, though unfinished, yet so famous, So...
Pagina 91 - Lie not ; but let thy heart be true to God, Thy mouth to it, thy actions to them both : Cowards tell lies, and those that fear the rod ; The stormy working soul spits lies and froth. Dare to be true. Nothing can need a lie : A fault, which needs it most, grows two thereby.
Pagina 99 - Certainly in taking revenge, a man is but even with his enemy ; but in passing it over, he is superior: for it is a prince's part to pardon. And Solomon, I am sure, saith, It is the glory of a man to pass by an offence.
Pagina 91 - ... eyes within thy locks; thy hair is as a flock of goats, that appear from Mount Gilead.
Pagina 77 - Sweet echo, sweetest nymph, that liv'st unseen Within thy airy shell By slow Meander's margent green, And in the violet-embroidered vale Where the love-lorn nightingale Nightly to thee her sad song mourneth well: Canst thou not tell me of a gentle pair That likest thy Narcissus are? O, if thou have Hid them in some flowery cave, Tell me but where, Sweet Queen of Parley, Daughter of the Sphere! So may'st thou be translated to the skies, And give resounding grace to all Heaven's harmonies!