The Quarterly Review

Передня обкладинка
William Gifford, Sir John Taylor Coleridge, John Gibson Lockhart, Whitwell Elwin, William Macpherson, William Smith, Sir John Murray (IV), Rowland Edmund Prothero (Baron Ernle)
John Murray, 1833

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Сторінка 193 - O let me not be mad, not mad, sweet heaven ! Keep me in temper ; I would not be mad ! — Enter Gentleman.
Сторінка 12 - Sceptre and Crown Must tumble down, And in the dust be equal made With the poor crooked scythe and spade. Some men with swords may reap the field, And plant fresh laurels where they kill : But their strong nerves at last must yield ; They tame but one another still : Early or late They stoop to fate, And must give up their murmuring breath When they, pale captives, creep to death. The garlands wither on your brow; Then boast no more your mighty deeds! Upon Death's purple altar now See where the victor-victim...
Сторінка 197 - Methinks I should know you, and know this man; Yet I am doubtful; for I am mainly ignorant What place this is; and all the skill I have Remembers not these garments; nor I know not Where I did lodge last night. Do not laugh at me; For (as I am a man) I think this lady To be my child Cordelia.
Сторінка 197 - Why should a dog, a horse, a rat, have life, And thou no breath at all ? O, thou wilt come no more, Never, never, never, never, never!
Сторінка 351 - Who is like unto thee, O Lord, among the gods? who is like thee, glorious in holiness, fearful in praises, doing wonders?
Сторінка 460 - By one so deep in love, then he, who ne'er From me shall separate• at once my lips All trembling kiss'd. The book and writer both Were love's purveyors. In its leaves that day We read no more.
Сторінка 186 - I have of late — but wherefore I know not — lost all my mirth, forgone all custom of exercises; and indeed it goes so heavily with my disposition that this goodly frame, the earth, seems to me a sterile promontory, this most excellent canopy, the air, look you, this brave o'erhanging firmament, this majestical roof fretted with golden fire, why, it appears no other thing to me than a foul and pestilent congregation of vapours.
Сторінка 81 - By some strange chance we have never seen his first publication, which, if it at all resembles its younger brother, must be by this time so popular that any notice of it on our part would seem idle and presumptuous ; but we gladly seize this opportunity of repairing an unintentional neglect, and of introducing to the admiration of our more sequestered readers a new prodigy of genius — another and a brighter star of that galaxy or milky way of poetry of which the lamented Keats was the harbinger;...
Сторінка 440 - Ha, you gods! why this? what this, you gods? Why, this Will lug your priests and servants from your sides, Pluck stout men's pillows from below their heads: This yellow slave Will knit and break religions; bless the accurs'd; Make the hoar leprosy ador'd; place thieves, And give them title, knee, and approbation, With senators on the bench...
Сторінка 11 - The glories of our blood and state Are shadows, not substantial things : There is no armour against fate : Death lays his icy hands on kings : Sceptre and crown Must tumble down, And in the dust be equal made With the poor crooked scythe and spade.

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