Love and madness, a story too true, in a series of letters between parties, whose names would perhaps be mentioned, were they less known, or less lamented
G. Kearsley, 1780 - 296 Seiten
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Seite 218 - Farewell the tranquil mind ! Farewell content ! Farewell the plumed troop, and the big wars, That make ambition virtue ! O, farewell ! Farewell the neighing steed, and the shrill trump, The spirit-stirring drum, the ear-piercing fife, The royal banner ; and all quality. Pride, pomp, and circumstance of glorious war ! And O, you mortal engines, whose rude throats The immortal Jove's dread clamours counterfeit, Farewell ! Othello's occupation's gone ! lago.
Seite 71 - They highly extol the man's learning and probity, and will not be persuaded that the university will make any difficulty of conferring such a favour upon a stranger, if he is recommended by the Dean.
Seite 17 - Curst be the verse, how well soe'er it flow, That tends to make one worthy man my foe, Give virtue scandal, innocence a fear, Or from the soft-eyed virgin steal a tear...
Seite 29 - There runs not a drop of my blood in the veins of any living creature. This called on me for revenge. I have sought it : I have killed many : I have fully glutted my vengeance : for my country I rejoice at the beams of peace. . But do not harbor a thought that mine is the joy of fear.
Seite 71 - I hope you will burn this, and pardon me for giving you so much trouble about an impracticable thing; but if you think there is a probability of obtaining the favour asked...
Seite 85 - ... their appetites in a short time, and commonly in about two years expire, from a total contraction of all the joints of the body. In this horrid...
Seite 226 - My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed All under the willow tree. Black his hair as the winter night, White his skin as the summer snow, Red his face as the morning light; Cold he lies in the grave below. My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed, All under the willow-tree.
Seite 26 - I'll rant as well as thou. Queen. This is mere madness : And thus a while the fit will work on him ; Anon, as patient as the female dove, When that her golden couplets are disclosed. His silence will sit drooping.