De Clifford; or, The constant man, by the author of 'Tremaine'.

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Page 62 - Still to be neat, still to be drest, As you were going to a feast ; Still to be powdered, still perfumed: Lady, it is to be presumed, Though art's hid causes are not found, All is not sweet, all is not sound. Give me a look, give me a face; That makes simplicity a grace ; Robes loosely flowing, hair as free : Such sweet neglect more taketh me, Than all the adulteries of art ; They strike mine eyes, but not my heart.
Page 145 - This is the prettiest low-born lass that ever Ran on the green-sward : nothing she does or seems But smacks of something greater than herself, Too noble for this place.
Page 301 - The seasons' difference; as, the icy fang, And churlish chiding of the winter's wind; Which when it bites and blows upon my body, Even till I shrink with cold, I smile, and say,— This is no flattery: these are counsellors That feelingly persuade me what I am.
Page 292 - gainst that season comes Wherein our Saviour's birth is celebrated, The bird of dawning singeth all night long : And then, they say, no spirit dare stir abroad ; The nights are wholesome ; then no planets strike, No fairy takes, nor witch hath power to charm, So hallow'd and so gracious is the time.
Page 298 - Tell them that brave it most They beg for more by spending Who in their greatest cost Seek nothing but commending ; And if they make reply, Then give them all the lie.
Page 281 - George's banner, broad and gay Now faded, as the fading ray Less bright, and less, was flung ; The evening gale had scarce the power To wave it on the Donjon Tower, So heavily it hung.
Page 196 - I have heard That guilty creatures, sitting at a play, Have by the very cunning of the scene Been struck so to the soul that presently They have proclaim'd their malefactions; For murder, though it have no tongue, will speak With most miraculous organ.
Page 245 - While the word was in the king's mouth, there fell a voice from heaven, saying, O king Nebuchadnezzar, to thee it is spoken ; The kingdom is departed from thee.
Page 200 - Not hear me ! by my sufferings, but you shall! My lord, my lord, I'm not that abject wretch You think me : patience ! where's the distance throws Me back so far, but I may boldly speak In right, though proud oppression will not hear me ! Pri.
Page 200 - Who could not win the mistress, woo'd the maid; Against the poets their own arms they turn'd, Sure to hate most the men from whom they learn'd. So modern 'pothecaries taught the art By doctors...

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