Marriage

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R. Bentley, 1841 - 434 páginas

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Página 38 - For contemplation he and valour formed, For softness she and sweet attractive grace; He for God only, she for God in him.
Página 150 - They say, miracles are past; and we -have our philosophical persons, to make modern and familiar things, supernatural and causeless. Hence is it, that we make trifles of terrors; ensconcing ourselves into seeming knowledge, when we should submit ourselves to an unknown fear.
Página 432 - O Caledonia ! stern and wild, meet nurse for a poetic child, • land of brown heath and shaggy wood, land of the mountain and the flood, land of my sires!
Página 172 - My heart's in the Highlands wherever I go. Farewell to the Highlands, farewell to the North, The birth-place of...
Página 299 - Friendship is constant in all other things Save in the office and affairs of love: Therefore all hearts in love use their own tongues; Let every eye negotiate for itself, And trust no agent; for beauty is a witch, Against whose charms faith melteth into blood.
Página 226 - Thou shalt destroy them that speak leasing : the Lord will abhor the bloody and deceitful man. 7 But as for me, I will come into thy house in the multitude of thy mercy : and in thy fear will I worship toward thy holy temple.
Página 387 - As it slipped through their jaws, when their edge grew dull, As they lazily mumbled the bones of the dead, When they scarce could rise from the spot where they fed ; So well had they broken a lingering fast With those who had fallen for that night's repast.
Página 388 - Great wits sometimes may gloriously offend, And rise to faults true critics dare not mend. From vulgar bounds with brave disorder part. And snatch a grace beyond the reach of art, Which, without passing through the judgment, gains The heart, and all its end at once attains.
Página 387 - Gorging and growling o'er carcase and limb; They were too busy to bark at him ! From a Tartar's skull they had...
Página 297 - Sweet rose, whose hue angry and brave Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye, Thy root is ever in its grave, And thou must die Sweet spring, full of sweet days and roses, A box where sweets compacted lie. My music shows ye have your closes. And all must die. Only a sweet and virtuous soul, Like seasoned timber, never gives ; But though the whole world turn to coal, Then chiefly lives.

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