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Сторінка 450 - And in the midst of the seven candlesticks one like unto the Son of man, clothed with a garment down to the foot, and girt about the paps with a golden girdle.
Сторінка 370 - Almighty and most merciful Father, We have erred and strayed from thy ways like lost sheep. We have followed too much the devices and desires of our own hearts. We have offended against thy holy laws. We have left undone those things which we ought to have done; And we have done those things which we ought not to have done; And there is no health in us.
Сторінка 302 - Two loves I have of comfort and despair, Which like two spirits do suggest me still ; The better angel is a man right fair, The worser spirit a woman colour'd ill. To win me soon to hell, my female evil Tempteth my better angel from my side, And would corrupt my saint to be a devil, Wooing his purity with her foul pride.
Сторінка 268 - I behold like a Spanish great galleon, and an English man-of-war; Master Coleridge, like the former, was built far higher in learning, solid, but slow in his performances. CVL, with the English man-of-war, lesser in bulk, but lighter in sailing, could turn with all tides, tack about, and take advantage of all winds, by the quickness of his wit and invention.
Сторінка 370 - Almighty and everlasting God, who hatest nothing that thou hast made, and dost forgive the sins of all them that are penitent ; Create and make in us new and contrite hearts, that we worthily lamenting our sins, and acknowledging our wretchedness, may obtain of thee, the God of all mercy, perfect remission and forgiveness ; through Jesus Christ our Lord.
Сторінка 337 - O, that this too too solid flesh would melt, Thaw and resolve itself into a dew ! Or that the Everlasting had not fix'd His canon 'gainst self-slaughter! O God ! God! How weary, stale, flat and unprofitable Seem to me all the uses of this world ! Fie on't ! ah fie ! 'tis an unweeded garden, That grows to seed ; things rank and gross in nature Possess it merely.
Сторінка 429 - For books are not absolutely dead things, but do contain a potency of life in them to be as active as that soul was whose progeny they are; nay they do preserve as in a vial the purest efficacy and extraction of that living intellect that bred them.
Сторінка 158 - The turtle to her mate hath told her tale. Summer is come, for every spray now springs: The hart hath hung his old head on the pale; The buck in brake his winter coat he flings ; The fishes flete with new repaired scale.
Сторінка 436 - There, held in holy passion still, Forget thyself to marble, till With a sad leaden downward cast Thou fix them on the earth as fast...