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Сторінка 236 - My Lord of Ely, when I was last in Holborn, I saw good strawberries in your garden there : I do beseech you send for some of them.
Сторінка 95 - That I must die, it is my only comfort ; Death is the privilege of human nature, And life without it were not worth our taking: " Thither the poor, the pris'ner, and the mourner, \\* " Fly for relief, and lay their burthens down.
Сторінка 225 - What, me, my lord ?' quoth he. ' Yea, thee, traitor,' quoth the protector. And another let fly at the lord Stanley, which shrunk at the stroke and fell under the table, or else his head had been cleft to the teeth ; for as shortly as he shrank, yet ran the blood about his ears. Then...
Сторінка 133 - Think not, the good, The gentle deeds of mercy thou hast done Shall die forgotten all; the poor, the pris'ner, The fatherless, the friendless, and the widow, Who daily own the bounty of thy hand, Shall cry to heav'n, and pull a blessing on thee...
Сторінка 136 - To sooth the sorrows of the midnight mourner, Comfort comes with them ; like the golden sun Dispels the sullen shades with her sweet influence, And cheers the melancholy house of care.
Сторінка 199 - Inclining fondly to me she has sworn, She lov'd me more than all the world beside. Alic. Ha ! say'st thou ! — let me look upon thee well — "° 'T is true — I know thee now — A mischief on thee! — Thou art that fatal fair, that cursed she, That set my brain a madding. Thou hast robb'd me ; Thou hast undone me — Murder ! Oh my Hastings ! See his pale bloody head shoots glaring by me ! 215 Give him me back again, thou soft deluder, Thou beauteous witch — 200 wind.
Сторінка 223 - Chamberlain, as he that for the love between them thought he might be boldest with him, answered and said, That they were worthy to be punished as heinous traitors, whatsoever they were. And all the other affirmed the same. That is (quoth he) yonder sorceress my brother's wife, and other with her (meaning the queen).
Сторінка 168 - If she have such dominion o'er his heart, And turn it at her will, you rule her fate And should, by inference and apt deduction, Be arbiter of his. Is not her bread, The very means immediate to her being, The bounty of your hand ? Why does she live, If not to yield obedience to your pleasure, To speak, to act, to think as you command ? Ratcliffe.
Сторінка 134 - If, strongly charm'd, she leave the thorny way, And in the softer paths of pleasure stray, Ruin ensues, reproach and endless shame, And one false step entirely damns her fame: In vain with tears the loss she may deplore, In vain look back on what she was before; She sets, like stars that fall, to rise no more.

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