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Страница 251 - It ceased ; yet still the sails made on A pleasant noise till noon, A noise like of a hidden brook In the leafy month of June, That to the sleeping woods all night Singeth a quiet tune.
Страница 230 - But methinks he should stand in fear of fire, being burnt i' the hand for stealing of sheep. [Aside. CADE. Be brave then ; for your captain is brave, and vows reformation. There shall be, in England, seven halfpenny loaves sold for a penny : the threehooped pot shall have ten hoops ; and I will make it felony to drink small beer: all the realm shall be in common, and in Cheapside shall my palfrey go to grass.
Страница 420 - PRINCE, was a violator of his word, a libertine over head and ears in debt and disgrace, a despiser of domestic ties, the companion of gamblers and demireps, a man who has just closed half a century without one single claim on the gratitude of his country or the respect of posterity...
Страница 231 - Where he should find you lions, finds you hares, Where foxes, geese: you are no surer, no, Than is the coal of fire upon the ice, Or hailstone in the sun.
Страница 32 - Poetry is the breath and finer spirit of all knowledge ; it is the impassioned expression which is in the countenance of all Science.
Страница 253 - ... feels contempt For any living thing, hath faculties Which he has never used; that thought with him Is in its infancy. The man, whose eye Is ever on himself, doth look on one, The least of nature's works, one who might move The wise man to that scorn which wisdom holds Unlawful, ever.
Страница 253 - If thou be one whose heart the holy forms Of young imagination have kept pure, Stranger ! henceforth be warned; and know, that pride, Howe'er disguised in its own majesty, Is littleness; that he, who feels contempt For any living thing, hath faculties Which he has never used; that thought with him 50 Is in its infancy.
Страница 227 - Look, how the floor of heaven Is thick inlaid with patines of bright gold. There's not the smallest orb which thou behold'st But in his motion like an angel sings. Still quiring to the young-eyed cherubim; Such harmony is in immortal souls; But whilst this muddy vesture of decay Doth grossly close it in, we cannot hear it.
Страница 248 - IT is the first mild day of March : Each minute sweeter than before, The redbreast sings from the tall larch That stands beside our door. There is a blessing in the air, Which seems a sense of joy to yield To the bare trees, and mountains bare And grass in the green field.