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appear beauty became become beginning body called cause century character Christian Church common dark death desire divine earth England English existence expression eyes fair faith fall father feeling fire force French give gold hand hath head hear heart heaven hope human hundred ideas imagination Italy king knowledge land language Latin learned less letters light literature live look Lord manner master mind moral nature never night noble object once original passed period person philosophy pleasure poet poetry present reason religion rich Saxon says seen sense shillings side soul sound spirit sweet tell thee things thou thought tion true truth turned universal virtue whole write
Сторінка 383 - Be that word our sign of parting, bird, or fiend!" I shrieked, upstarting: "Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore! Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken! Leave my loneliness unbroken! Quit the bust above my door! Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!
Сторінка 343 - I see before me the Gladiator lie : He leans upon his hand — his manly brow Consents to death, but conquers agony, And his droop'd head sinks gradually low — And through his side the last drops, ebbing slow From the red gash, fall heavy, one by one, Like the first of a thunder-shower; and now The arena swims around him — he is gone, Ere ceased the inhuman shout which hail'd the wretch who won.
Сторінка 481 - Almighty hath not built Here for his envy, will not drive us hence : Here we may reign secure, and in my choice To reign is worth ambition, though in hell : Better to reign in hell, than serve in heaven.
Сторінка 383 - Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken! Leave my loneliness unbroken ! quit the bust above my door! Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door ! " Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore." And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door; And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming, And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor: And my soul from...
Сторінка 174 - Is not a patron, my lord, one who looks with unconcern on a man struggling for life in the water, and, when he has reached ground, encumbers him with help ? The notice which you have been pleased to take of my labours, had it been early had been kind ; but it has been delayed till I am indifferent, and cannot enjoy it ; till I am solitary. and cannot impart it; till I am known, and do not want it.
Сторінка 376 - Keech, the butcher's wife, come in then and call me gossip Quickly ? coming in to borrow a mess of vinegar ; telling us she had a good dish of prawns ; whereby thou didst desire to eat some ; whereby I told thee they were ill for a green wound...
Сторінка 213 - The sober herd that lowed to meet their young, The noisy geese that gabbled o'er the pool, The playful children just let loose from school, The watch-dog's voice that bayed the whispering wind, And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind; These all in sweet confusion sought the shade, And filled each pause the nightingale had made.
Сторінка 465 - Reading maketh a full man; conference a ready man; and writing an exact man. And therefore, if a man write little, he had need have a great memory; if he confer little, he had need have a present wit; and if he read little, he had need have much cunning, to seem to know that he doth not. Histories make men wise; poets witty; the mathematics subtle; natural philosophy deep; moral grave; logic and rhetoric able to contend.
Сторінка 84 - When I look upon the tombs of the great, every emotion of envy dies in me; when I read the epitaphs of the beautiful, every inordinate desire goes out; when I meet with the grief of parents upon a tomb-stone, my heart melts with compassion; when I see the tomb of the parents themselves, I consider the vanity of grieving for those whom we must quickly follow...
Сторінка 354 - The rest complains of cares to come. The flowers do fade, and wanton fields, To wayward winter reckoning yields, A honey tongue, a heart of gall, Is fancy's spring, but sorrow's fall. Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of Roses, Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies, Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten: In folly ripe, in reason rotten.