The Musical World: A Weekly Record of Musical Science, Literature, and Intelligence, Том 25

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J. Alfredo Novello, 1851

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Страница 217 - Hear, Nature, hear ! dear goddess, hear ! Suspend thy purpose, if thou didst intend To make this creature fruitful ! Into her womb convey sterility ! Dry up in her the organs of increase, And from her derogate body never spring A babe to honour her...
Страница 58 - That man is little to be envied, whose patriotism would not gain force upon the plain of Marathon, or whose piety would not grow warmer among the ruins of lona.
Страница 3 - Drink to me only with thine eyes, And I will pledge with mine; Or leave a kiss but in the cup And I'll not look for wine. The thirst that from the soul doth rise Doth ask a drink divine; But might I of Jove's nectar sup, I would not change for thine.
Страница 62 - Hos ego versiculos feci, tulit alter honores : Sic vos non vobis nidificatis aves ; Sic vos non vobis vellera fertis oves ; Sic vos non vobis mellificatis apes ; Sic vos non vobis fertis aratra boves.
Страница 3 - O, how this spring of love resembleth The uncertain glory of an April day ; Which now shows all the beauty of the sun, And by and by a cloud takes all away ! Re-enter PANTHINO.
Страница 3 - Shall we for ever make new books, as apothecaries make new mixtures, by pouring only out of one vessel into another ? Are we for ever to be twisting and untwisting the same rope ! for ever in the same track, — for ever at the same pace...
Страница 58 - DIE when you will, you need not wear At Heaven's Court a form more fair Than Beauty here on earth has given ; Keep but the lovely looks we see — The voice we hear — and you will be An angel ready-made for Heaven I * The words addressed by Lord Herbert of Cherbury to the beautiful Nun at Murano.
Страница 191 - This poor man cried, and the Lord heard him, and saved him out of all his troubles.
Страница 42 - That eagle's fate and mine are one, Which, on the shaft that made him die, Espied a feather of his own, Wherewith he wont to soar so high.
Страница 63 - All my past life is mine no more, The flying hours are gone; Like transitory dreams given o'er, Whose images are kept in store By memory alone. The time that is to come is not ; How can it then be mine? The present moment's all my lot, And that as fast as it is got, Phyllis, is only thine.

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