British Theatre: The mourning bride, by Mr. Congreve. 1791. Douglas, by John Home. 1791. The Albion queens; or, The death of Mary, queen of Scots, by J. Banks. 1791

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Page 63 - Heav'n has no rage like love to hatred turn'd, Nor hell a fury like a woman scorn'd.
Page 36 - Whom, with a troop of fifty chosen men, I met advancing. The pursuit I led, Till we o'ertook the spoil-encumber'd foe. We fought and conquer'd. E're a sword was drawn, An arrow from my bow had pierc'd their chief, Who wore that day the arms which now I wear.
Page 35 - My name is Norval ! on the Grampian hills My father feeds his flocks : a frugal swain, Whose constant cares were to increase his store, And keep his only son, myself, at home. For I had heard of battles, and I long'd To follow to the field some warlike lord : And Heav'n soon granted what my sire denied.
Page 35 - They turn'd upon him: but his active arm Struck to the ground, from whence they rose no more, The fiercest two; the others fled amain, And left him master of the bloody field. Speak, Lady Randolph : upon Beauty's tongue Dwell accents pleasing to the brave and bold. Speak, noble dame, and thank him for thy lord. LADY RANDOLPH.
Page 31 - Looking tranquillity ! it strikes an awe And terror on my aching sight ; the tombs And monumental caves of death look cold, And shoot a chillness to my trembling heart.
Page 67 - Oh, thou all-righteous and eternal King, Who father of the fatherless art call'd, Protect my son ! Thy inspiration, Lord ! Hath fill'd his bosom with that sacred fire, Which in the breasts of his forefathers burn'd ! Set him on high like them, that he may shine, The star and glory of his native land ! Then let the minister of death descend, And bear my willing spirit to it's place.
Page 74 - Through skies, where I could count each little star. The fanning west wind scarcely stirs the leaves ; The river, rushing o'er its pebbled bed, Imposes silence, with a stilly sound. In such a place as this, at such an hour, If ancestry...
Page 71 - Therefore I thank Glenalvon for his counsel, Although it sounded harshly. Why remind Me of my birth obscure ? Why slur my power With such contemptuous terms ? Glen.
Page 31 - And terror on my aching sight; the tombs And monumental caves of death look cold, And shoot a dullness 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 18 - Which are diffused through the revolving year, Come, heavy-laden with the oppressing weight, To me ; with me, successively, they leave The sighs, the tears, the groans, the restless cares, And all the damps of grief, that did retard their flight; They shake their downy wings, and scatter all The dire collected dews on my poor head ; Then fly with joy and swiftness from me.

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