An apology for the life of George Anne Bellamy, written by herself [ed. by A. Bicknell]. To which is added her original letter to John Calcraft, Том 4

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Страница 151 - In the corrupted currents of this world Offence's gilded hand may shove by justice, And oft 'tis seen the wicked prize itself Buys out the law; but 'tis not so above; There is no shuffling, there the action lies In his true nature, and we ourselves compell'd Even to the teeth and forehead of our faults To give in evidence.
Страница 1 - tis slander; Whose edge is sharper than the sword ; whose tongue Outvenoms all the worms of Nile; whose breath Rides on the posting winds, and doth belie All corners of the world : kings, queens, and states, Maids, matrons, nay, the secrets of the grave This viperous slander enters.
Страница 15 - Ah me! for aught that ever I could read. Could ever hear by tale or history, The course of true love never did run smooth: But, either it was different in blood; Her.
Страница 125 - In me to lofe. Dia. Mine honour's fuch a ring; My chaftity's the jewel of our houfe, Bequeathed down from many anceftors ; Which were the greateft obloquy i'th
Страница 124 - We, Hermia, like two artificial Gods, Created with our needles both one flower, Both on one sampler, sitting on one cushion...
Страница 16 - That, in ° a fpleen, unfolds both heaven and earth, And ere a man hath power to fay, — Behold ! The jaws of darknefs do devour it up : So quick bright things come to...
Страница 148 - Tis thou, thrice sweet and gracious goddess, addressing myself to LIBERTY, whom all in public or in private worship, whose taste is grateful, and ever will be so, till NATURE herself shall change no tint of words can spot thy snowy mantle...
Страница 66 - Glasgow, told his auditors that he dreamed the preceding night he was in the infernal regions, at a grand entertainment, where all the devils...
Страница 48 - The rofe, tho' a beautiful red, Looks faded to PHILLIS'S bloom; And the breeze from the bean-flower bed To her breath's but a feeble perfume : The dew-drop fo limpid and gay, That loofe on the violet lies, Tho' brighten'd by PHOE BUS'S ray, Wants luftre, compar'd to her eyes.

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