The old sailor's jolly boat, steered by M.H. Barker

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Matthew Henry Barker
1844

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Сторінка 32 - I love thee, and it is my love that speaks— There are a sort of men whose visages Do cream and mantle like a standing pond, And do a wilful stillness entertain, With purpose to be dressed in an opinion Of wisdom, gravity, profound conceit, As who should say, 'I am Sir Oracle, And when I ope my lips let no dog bark'....
Сторінка 232 - How oft when men are at the point of death Have they been merry! which their keepers call A lightning before death: O, how may I Call this a lightning?
Сторінка 107 - The man that hath no music in himself, Nor is not moved with concord of sweet sounds, Is fit for treasons, stratagems, and spoils ; The motions of his spirit are dull as night, And his affections dark as Erebus. Let no such man be trusted.
Сторінка 382 - Had I a heart for falsehood framed, I ne'er could injure you ; For though your tongue no promise claimed, , Your charms would make me true. To you no soul shall bear deceit, No stranger offer wrong ; But friends in all the aged you'll meet, And lovers in the young. But when they learn that you have...
Сторінка 353 - Implored your highness' pardon and set forth A deep repentance: nothing in his life Became him like the leaving it; he died As one that had been studied in his death, To throw away the dearest thing he owed As 'twere a careless trifle.
Сторінка 279 - I well remember the street on London Bridge, narrow, darksome, and dangerous to passengers, from the multitude of carriages: frequent arches of strong timber crossing the street, from the tops of the houses to keep them together, and from falling into the river. Nothing but use could preserve the repose of the inmates, who soon grew deaf to the noise of falling waters, the clamors of watermen, or the frequent shrieks of drowning wretches.
Сторінка 33 - He draweth out the thread of his verbosity finer than the staple of his argument.
Сторінка 107 - This music crept by me upon the waters; Allaying both their fury, and my passion, With its sweet air: thence I have follow'd it, Or it hath drawn me rather: — But 'tis gone.
Сторінка 144 - O cunning enemy, that, to catch a saint, With saints dost bait thy hook ! Most dangerous Is that temptation that doth goad us on To sin in loving virtue...
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