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Страница 196 - But thinks, admitted to that equal sky, His faithful dog shall bear him company.
Страница 16 - Or find some ruin midst its dreary dells, Whose walls more awful nod By thy religious gleams. Or if chill blustering winds or driving rain Prevent my willing feet, be mine the hut That, from the mountain's side, Views wilds and swelling floods, And hamlets brown, and dim-discover'd spires ; And hears their simple bell ; and marks o'er all Thy dewy fingers draw The gradual dusky veil.
Страница 60 - Goneril! You are not worth the dust which the rude wind Blows in your face. [I fear your disposition. That nature which contemns its origin Cannot be bordered certain in itself." She that herself will sliver* and disbranch From her material' sap, perforce must wither And come to deadly use.
Страница 317 - Mine eyes are made the fools o' the other senses, Or else worth all the rest; I see thee still, And on thy blade and dudgeon gouts of blood, Which was not so before.
Страница 248 - ... his pride. He chose a mournful Muse Soft pity to infuse: He sung Darius great and good, By too severe a fate Fallen, fallen, fallen, fallen.
Страница 339 - And the accomplishment of them lies not but in a power above man's to promise; but that none hath by more studious ways endeavoured, and with more unwearied spirit that none shall, that I dare almost aver of myself, as far as life and free leisure will extend...
Страница 199 - And, conscious, glancing oft' on every side His sated eye, feels his heart heave with joy. The gleaners spread around, and here and there, Spike after spike, their scanty harvest pick. Be not too narrow, husbandmen ! but fling From the full sheaf, with charitable stealth, The liberal handful. Think, oh, grateful, think! How good the God of harvest is to you, Who pours abundance o'er your flowing fields...
Страница 356 - To where Fleet-ditch with disemboguing streams Rolls the large tribute of dead dogs to Thames, The king of dykes ! than whom no sluice of mud With deeper sable blots the silver flood.