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Pàgina 65 - When lovely woman stoops to folly, And finds too late that men betray ; What charm can soothe her melancholy, What art can wash her guilt away ? The only art her guilt to cover, To hide her shame from every eye, To give repentance to her lover, And wring his bosom — is to die.
Pàgina 158 - My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun; Coral is far more red than her lips' red; If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun; If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head. I have seen roses damask'd, red and white, But no such roses see I in her cheeks; And in some perfumes is there more delight Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks. I love to hear her speak, yet well I know That music hath a far more pleasing sound: 10 I grant I never saw a goddess go; My mistress, when she walks,...
Pàgina 42 - Now the bright morning star, day's harbinger, Comes dancing from the east, and leads with her The flowery May, who from her green lap throws The yellow cowslip, and the pale primrose. Hail, bounteous May, that dost inspire Mirth, and youth, and warm desire ; Woods and groves are of thy dressing, Hill and dale doth boast thy blessing. Thus we salute thee with our early song, And welcome thee, and wish thee long.
Pàgina 390 - He appears, by his modest and unaffected narration, to have described things as he saw them, to have copied nature from the life, and to have consulted his senses, not his imagination. He meets with no basilisks that destroy with their eyes; his crocodiles devour their prey without tears; and his cataracts fall from the rock without deafening the neighbouring inhabitants.
Pàgina 56 - ... the King sitting and toying with his concubines, Portsmouth, Cleveland, and Mazarine, &c., a French boy singing love-songs,* in that glorious gallery, whilst about twenty of the great courtiers and other dissolute persons were at Basset round a large table, a bank of at least 2000 in gold before them ; upon which two gentlemen who were with me made reflections with astonishment. Six days after was all in the dust...
Pàgina 12 - And rapt Urania sings to thee. Oh, let me pierce thy secret cell, And in thy deep recesses dwell ! Perhaps from Norwood's oak-clad hill, When Meditation has her fill, I just may cast my careless eyes Where London's spiry turrets rise, Think of its crimes, its cares, its pain, Then shield me in the woods again.
Pàgina 56 - I can never forget the inexpressible luxury and profaneness, gaming, and all dissoluteness, and as it were total forgetfulness of God, (it being Sunday evening,) which this day se'nnight I was witness of, the King sitting and toying with his concubines, Portsmouth, Cleveland...
Pàgina 200 - ... coursing along the sands ; trains of ducks streaming over the surface ; silent and watchful cranes, intent and wading ; clamorous crows, and all the winged multitudes that subsist by the bounty of this vast liquid magazine of nature. " High over all these hovers one, whose action instantly arrests his attention.