The Fergusons; or, Woman's love and the world's favour [by E. Phipps].

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H. Colburn, 1839
 

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Pàgina 149 - element,' but the word is over-worn. \Exit. Vio. This fellow is wise enough to play the fool ; And to do that well craves a kind of wit : He must observe their mood on whom he jests, The quality of persons, and the time, And, like the haggard, check at every feather That comes before his eye. This is a practice As full of labour as a wise man's art : . , , For folly that he wisely shows is fit ; But wise men, folly-fall'n, quite taint their wit.
Pàgina 128 - All school-days' friendship, childhood innocence ? We, Hermia, like two artificial gods, Have with our needles created both one flower, Both on one sampler, sitting on one cushion, Both warbling of one song, both in one key ; As if our hands, our sides...
Pàgina 215 - O, that a man might know The end of this day's business, ere it come ! But it sufficeth, that the day will end, And then the end is known.
Pàgina 277 - Not for the world: why, man, she is mine own; And I as rich in having such a jewel As twenty seas, if all their sand were pearl, The water nectar, and the rocks pure gold.
Pàgina 221 - Heaven doth with us as we with torches do ; Not light them for themselves : for if our virtues Did not go forth of us, 'twere all alike As if we had them not...
Pàgina 173 - Bursts thro' the cypress-walk, the convent-cell, Oft will her warm and wayward heart revive, To love and joy still tremblingly alive ; The Whispered vow, the chaste caress prolong, Weave the light dance and swell the choral song ; With rapt ear drink the enchanting serenade, And, as it melts along the moonlight-glade, To each soft note return as soft a sigh, And bless the youth that bids her slumbers fly.
Pàgina 212 - For I have neither wit, nor words, nor worth, Action, nor utterance, nor the power of speech, To stir men's blood: I only speak right on; I tell you that which you yourselves do know...
Pàgina 6 - Press on — though but a rill entering the sea, Entering and lost ! Our task would never end. Day glimmered and I went, a gentle breeze Ruffling the LEMAN Lake. Wave after wave, If such they might be called, dashed as in sport, Not anger, with the pebbles on the beach Making wild music, and far westward caught The sun-beam — where, alone and as entranced, Counting the hours, the fisher in his skiff Lay with his circular and dotted line On the bright waters.
Pàgina 194 - The uncouth gibberish with which all this was uttered, like the darkness of an oracle, made us the more attentive to it. To be short, the knight left the money with her that he had crossed her hand with, and got up again on his horse.
Pàgina 173 - But she has passions which outstrip the wind, And tear her virtues up, as tempests root The sea.

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