Modern English Drama

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Página 126 - tis out of pure good humor, and I take it for granted they deal exactly in the same manner with me.
Página 407 - To rest for ever — wherefore do I pause? I feel the impulse — yet I do not plunge ; I see the peril — yet do not recede ; And my brain reels — and yet my foot is firm : There is a power upon me which withholds, And makes it my fatality to live ; If it be life to wear within myself This barrenness of spirit, and to be My own soul's sepulchre, for I have ceased To justify my deeds unto myself — The last infirmity of evil.
Página 431 - I could not tame my nature down ; for he Must serve who fain would sway ; and soothe, and sue, And watch all time, and pry into all place, And be a living lie, who would become; A mighty thing amongst the mean, and such The mass are ; I disdain'd to mingle with A herd, though to be leader — and of wolves. The lion is alone, and so am I.
Página 147 - Here's to the maiden of bashful fifteen; Here's to the widow of fifty; 'Here's to the flaunting extravagant quean, And here's to the housewife that's thrifty. Chorus* Let the toast pass, — Drink to the lass, I'll warrant she'll prove an excuse for the glass.
Página 349 - And though 111 tongues shall wound me, and our common name Be as a mark stamped on thine innocent brow For men to point at as they pass, do thou Forbear, and never think a thought unkind Of those, who perhaps love thee in their graves.
Página 208 - I'll wager the rascals a crown, They always preach best with a skinful. But when you come down with your pence, For a slice of their scurvy religion, I'll leave it to all men of sense, But you, my good friend, are the pigeon.
Página 28 - Some few days hence, and then 'twill be too large, When thou'rt contracted in thy narrow urn, Shrunk to a few cold ashes; then Octavia (For Cleopatra will not live to see it), Octavia then will have thee all her own, And bear thee in her widowed hand to Caesar; Caesar will weep, the crocodile will weep, To see his rival of the universe Lie still and peaceful there.
Página 413 - Myself, and thee — a peasant of the Alps — Thy humble virtues, hospitable home, And spirit patient, pious, proud, and free ; Thy self-respect, grafted on innocent thoughts ; Thy days of health, and nights of sleep ; thy toils, By danger dignified, yet guiltless ; hopes Of cheerful old age and a quiet grave, With cross and garland over its green turf, 70 And thy grandchildren's love for epitaph ! This do I see — and then I look within — It matters not — my Soul was scorched already ! C.
Página 411 - tis blood — my blood ! the pure warm stream Which ran in the veins of my fathers, and in ours When we were in our youth, and had one heart, And loved each other as we should not love, And this was shed : but still it rises up, Colouring the clouds, that shut me out from heaven, Where thou art not — and I shall never be.
Página 346 - My God! Can it be possible I have To die so suddenly? So young to go Under the obscure, cold, rotting, wormy ground! To be nailed down into a narrow place; To see no more sweet sunshine; hear no more Blithe voice of living thing; muse not again Upon familiar thoughts, sad, yet thus lost — How fearful!

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