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Oxford University Press, 1887 - Electronic journals

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Page 255 - Against thy mother aught; leave her to heaven, And to those thorns that in her bosom lodge To prick and sting her.
Page 186 - Because you are not merry : and 'twere as easy For you to laugh and leap and say you are merry, Because you are not sad. Now, by two-headed Janus, Nature hath framed strange fellows in her time : Some that will evermore peep through their eyes And laugh like parrots at a bag-piper, And other of such vinegar aspect That they'll not show their teeth in way of smile, Though Nestor swear the jest be laughable.
Page 50 - Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend, For the lesson thou hast taught ! Thus at the flaming forge of life Our fortunes must be wrought ; Thus on its sounding anvil shaped Each burning deed and thought.
Page 106 - Vestiges of Ancient Manners and Customs, discoverable in Modern Italy and Sicily.
Page 187 - Where'er I roam, whatever realms to see, My heart untravell'd fondly turns to thee; Still to my brother turns, with ceaseless pain, And drags at each remove a lengthening chain.
Page 44 - She openeth her mouth with wisdom; and in her tongue is the law of kindness. She looketh well to the ways of her household, and eateth not the bread of idleness. Her children arise up, and call her blessed; her husband also, and he praiseth her.
Page 54 - The man that hath no music in himself, Nor is not moved with concord of sweet sounds, Is fit for treasons, stratagems, and spoils ; The motions of his spirit are dull as night, And his affections dark as Erebus. Let no such man be trusted.
Page 161 - And he said unto another, Follow -me. But he said, Lord, suffer me first to go and bury my father. 60 Jesus said unto him, Let the dead bury their dead : but go thou and preach the kingdom of God.
Page 86 - MINE be a cot beside the hill, A bee-hive's hum shall soothe my ear ; A willowy brook, that turns a mill, With many a fall, shall linger near. The swallow, oft, beneath my thatch Shall twitter from her clay-built nest ; Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch, And share my meal, a welcome guest.
Page 291 - royal bird'? Gone down, it seems, to Scotland to be fiddled Unto by Sawney's violin, we have heard: 'Caw me, caw thee'— for six months hath been hatching This scene of royal itch and loyal scratching.

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