The Cornhill Magazine

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George Smith, William Makepeace Thackeray
Smith, Elder., 1874
 

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Seite 343 - Was this the face that launched a thousand ships And burnt the topless towers of Ilium? Sweet Helen, make me immortal with a kiss. Her lips suck forth my soul — see where it flies! Come, Helen, come, give me my soul again. Here will I dwell, for heaven is in these lips And all is dross that is not Helena.
Seite 735 - Since I had the pleasure of seeing you last, I have been almost wholly in the country, at a farmer's house, quite alone, trying to write a comedy. It is now finished; but when or how it will be acted, or whether it will be acted at all, are questions I cannot resolve.
Seite 345 - I learned in Florence how to kiss my hand, Heave up my shoulders when they call me dog, And duck as low as any barefoot friar...
Seite 462 - But when the men beside their station took. The maidens with them, and with these the cook: When one huge wooden bowl before them stood. Fill'd with huge balls of farinaceous food; With bacon, mass saline, where never lean Beneath the brown and bristly rind was seen; When from a single horn the party drew Their copious draughts of heavy ale and new: When the...
Seite 344 - twill all be passed anon. O God, If thou wilt not have mercy on my soul, Yet for Christ's sake, whose blood hath ransom \1 me, Impose some end to my incessant pain; Let Faustus live in hell a thousand years, A hundred thousand, and at last be saved ! No end is limited to damned souls ! Why wert thou not a creature wanting soul? Or why is this immortal that thou hast ? Ah, Pythagoras...
Seite 343 - You stars that reigned at my nativity, Whose influence hath allotted Death and Hell, Now draw up Faustus like a foggy mist Into the entrails of yon labouring cloud, That when you vomit forth into the air, My limbs may issue from your smoky mouths, So that my soul may but ascend to Heaven.
Seite 345 - Thus, like the sad presaging raven, that tolls The sick man's passport in her hollow beak, And in the shadow of the silent night Doth shake contagion from her sable wings; Vexed and tormented runs poor Barabas With fatal curses towards these 'Christians.
Seite 346 - But not of kings. The forest deer, being struck, Runs to an herb that closeth up the wounds : But when the imperial lion's flesh is gor'd, He rends and tears it with his wrathful paw, [And], highly scorning that the lowly earth Should drink his blood, mounts up to the air: And so it fares with me, whose dauntless mind Th...
Seite 276 - But I've never changed a single doctrine: I've stuck like a plaster to the old faith I was born in. Yes; there's this to be said for the Church, a man can belong to the Church and bide in his cheerful old inn, and never trouble or worry his mind about doctrines at all. But to be a meetinger, you must go to chapel in all winds and weathers, and make yerself as frantic as a skit. Not but that chapelmembers be clever chaps enough in their way. They can lift up beautiful prayers out of their own heads,...
Seite 735 - I dare say he thinks he has done a mighty thing. He won't stay till he gets home to his seat in the country, to produce this wonderful deed: he'll call up the landlord of the first inn on the road ; and, after a suitable preface upon mortality and the uncertainty of life, will tell him that he should not delay in making his will; and here, Sir...

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