Southennan. ...: In Two Volumes, Volume 1

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J. & J. Harper, 1830 - Fiction

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Page 175 - 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.
Page 156 - Now came still evening on, and twilight gray Had in her sober livery all things clad ; Silence accompanied ; for beast and bird, They to their grassy couch, these to their nests Were slunk, all but the wakeful nightingale, She all night long her amorous descant sung...
Page 193 - Tis a proud mendicant: it boasts and begs; It begs an alms of homage from the throng, And oft the throng denies its charity.
Page 163 - Cease then, nor order imperfection name : Our proper bliss depends on what we blame. Know thy own point : This kind, this due degree Of blindness, weakness, Heaven bestows on thee.
Page 13 - On what foundation stands the warrior's pride? How just his hopes, let Swedish Charles decide; A frame of adamant, a soul of fire, No dangers fright him, and no labours tire...
Page 88 - A Melancholy grounded, and resolv'd, Receiv'd into a habit, argues love, Or deepe impression of strong discontents, In cases of these rarities a friend Upon whose faith, and confidence, we may Vent with security, our grief...
Page 33 - Had prov'd to me a grave. Pen. You had been happy : Then had you never known that sin of life Which blots all following glories with a vengeance, For forfeiting the last will of the dead, From whom you had your being. Ith.
Page 10 - How sweet these solitary places are ! how wantonly The wind blows through the leaves, and courts and plays with 'em ! Will you sit down, and sleep ? The heat invites you. Hark, how yon purling stream dances and murmurs ; The birds sing softly too. Pray take your rest, Sir.
Page 34 - Orsino about her father's daughter, who never told her love, But let concealment, like a worm i" the bud, Feed on her damask cheek.
Page 159 - Courts can give nothing, to the wise and good But scorn of pomp, and love of solitude. High stations tumult, but not bliss, create : None think the great unhappy, but the great : Fools gaze, and envy ; envy darts a sting, Which makes a swain as wretched as a king.

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