A Collection of English Songs: With an Appendix of Original Pieces

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William Bennett, Sold by P. Elmsly, J. Johnson and F. Wingrave, 1796 - 221 страници
 

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Страница 165 - Less than a god they thought there could not dwell Within the hollow of that shell That spoke so sweetly and so well. What passion cannot music raise and quell!
Страница 67 - Our portion is not large, indeed ; But then how little do we need ! For nature's calls are few : In this the art of living lies, To want no more than may suffice, And make that little do.
Страница 17 - Not, Celia, that I juster am Or better than the rest ; For I would change each hour, like them, Were not my heart at rest. But I am tied to very thee By every thought I have ; Thy face I only care to see, Thy heart I only crave.
Страница 5 - Immodest words admit of no defence ; For want of decency is want of sense.
Страница 12 - Nor peace, nor ease, the heart can know, That, like the needle true, Turns at the touch of joy or woe, But turning, trembles too.
Страница 97 - Cause I see a woman kind? Or a well disposed nature Joined with a lovely feature? Be she meeker, kinder, than Turtle-dove or pelican, If she be not so to me, What care I how kind she be? Shall a woman's virtues move Me to perish for her love? Or her...
Страница 70 - For women, born to be controll'd, Stoop to the forward and the bold, Affect the haughty and the proud, The gay, the frolic, and the loud. Who first the generous steed oppress'd, Not kneeling did salute the beast, But with high courage, life, and force, Approaching, tam'd th
Страница 133 - Now the flame rises fast, you exult in my pain; But the son of Alknomook can never complain. I go to the land where my father is gone; His ghost shall rejoice in the fame of his son: Death comes like a friend, he relieves me from pain; And thy son, Oh Alknomook!
Страница 20 - I prithee send me back my heart, Since I cannot have thine; For if from yours you will not part, Why then shouldst thou have mine? Yet now I think on't, let it lie; To find it were in vain, For th' hast a thief in either eye Would steal it back again.
Страница 13 - The heart that melts for others' woe, Shall then scarce feel its own. The wounds which now each moment bleed, Each moment then shall close; And tranquil days shall still succeed To nights of calm repose.

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