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Страница 169 - But let me scrape the dirt away, That hangs upon your face; And stop and eat, for well you may Be in a hungry case." Said John, "It is my wedding-day, And all the world would stare If wife should dine at Edmonton, And I should dine at Ware.
Страница 166 - Twas twilight, and the sunless day went down Over the waste of waters ; like a veil, Which, if withdrawn, would but disclose the frown Of one whose hate is mask'd but to assail. Thus to their hopeless eyes...
Страница 128 - Here's a sigh to those who love me, And a smile to those who hate ; And whatever sky's above me, Here's a heart for every fate. Though the ocean roar around me, Yet it still shall bear me on ; Though a desert should surround me, It hath springs that may be won.
Страница 208 - twas a pleasing fear, For I was, as it were, a child of thee, And trusted to thy billows far and near, And laid my hand upon thy mane —as I do here.
Страница 115 - If I live ten years longer, you will see, however, that it is not over with me — I don't mean in literature, for that is nothing ; and it may seem odd enough to say, I do not think it my vocation. But you will see that I shall do something or other — the times and fortune permitting — that, ' like the cosmogony, or creation of the world, will puzzle the philosophers of all ages.
Страница 94 - I do not believe — and I must say it, in the very dregs of all this bitter business — that there ever was a better, or even a brighter, a kinder, or a more amiable and agreeable being than Lady B. I never had, nor can have, any reproach to make her, while with me. Where there is blame, it belongs to myself, and, if I cannot redeem, I must bear it.
Страница 164 - The Ferrara story is of a piece with all the rest of the Venetian manufacture, — you may judge. I only changed horses there since I wrote to you, after my visit in June last. ' Convent, ' and ' carry off, ' quotha ! and ' girl. ' I should like to know who has been carried off, except poor dear me. I have been more ravished myself than anybody since the Trojan war...
Страница 235 - Twas thine own genius gave the final blow, And help'd to plant the wound that laid thee low: So the struck eagle, stretch'd upon the plain, No more through rolling clouds to soar again, View'd his own feather on the fatal dart, And wing'd the shaft that quiver'd in his heart; Keen were his pangs, but keener far to feel, He nursed the pinion which impell'd the steel; While the same plumage that had warm'd his nest . Drank the last life-drop of his bleeding breast.