The New Monthly Magazine and Humorist, Volume 66

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Henry Colburn

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Page 16 - O eloquent, just, and mighty Death ! whom none could advise, thou hast persuaded ; what none hath dared, thou hast done ; and whom all the world hath flattered, thou only hast cast out of the world and despised ; thou hast drawn together all the far-stretched greatness, all the pride, cruelty, and ambition of man, and covered it all over with these two narrow words, Hie jacet...
Page 493 - Speak of me as I am; nothing extenuate, Nor set down aught in malice: then must you speak Of one that...
Page 269 - The work of a correct and regular writer is a garden accurately formed and diligently planted, varied with shades and scented with flowers. The composition of Shakespeare is a forest in which oaks extend their branches and pines tower in the air, interspersed sometimes with weeds and brambles and sometimes giving shelter to myrtles and to roses; filling the eye with awful pomp and gratifying the mind with endless diversity.
Page 493 - No more of that. I pray you, in your letters, When you shall these unlucky deeds relate, Speak of me as I am ; nothing extenuate, Nor set down aught in malice...
Page 354 - em! No knowing 'em! No travelling at all - no locomotion, No inkling of the way - no notion 'No go' - by land or ocean No mail - no post No news from any foreign coast No Park - no Ring - no afternoon gentility - . •, No company - no nobility No warmth, no cheerfulness, no...
Page 354 - No sun — no moon! No morn — no noon — No dawn — no dusk — no proper time of day — No sky — no earthly view — No distance looking blue — No road — no street — no
Page 388 - It is my lady ; Oh! it is my love : Oh, that she knew she were! She speaks, yet she says nothing : what of that ? Her eye discourses : I will answer it.
Page 364 - Fair laughs the Morn, and soft the zephyr blows, While proudly riding o'er the azure realm In gallant trim the gilded Vessel goes : Youth on the prow, and Pleasure at the helm i Regardless of the sweeping Whirlwind's sway, That hush'd in grim repose expects his evening prey.
Page 493 - O my love ! my wife ! Death, that hath suck'd the honey of thy breath, Hath had no power yet upon thy beauty : Thou art not conquer'd ; beauty's ensign yet Is crimson in thy lips and in thy cheeks, And death's pale flag is not advanced there.
Page 289 - So he died, and she very imprudently married the barber; and there were present the Picninnies, and the Joblillies, and the Garyulies, and the Grand Panjandrum himself, with the little round button at top; and they all fell to playing the game of catch as catch can, till the gunpowder ran out at the heels of their boots.

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