Warwick castle, Volume 1

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Page 55 - O, how this spring of love resembleth The uncertain glory of an April day ; Which now shows all the beauty of the sun, And by and by a cloud takes all away ! Re-enter PANTHINO.
Page 20 - Sad is my fate ! said the heart-broken stranger ; The wild deer and wolf to a covert can flee, But I have no refuge from famine and danger, A home and a country remain not to me.
Page 271 - Skill'd to pronounce what noblest thoughts inspire, He blends the speaker's with the patriot's fire ; Bold to conceive, nor timorous to conceal, What Britons dare to think, he dares to tell.
Page 242 - Of total ruin, honour, virtue, peace, Friends, families, and fortune, headlong sink. Up springs the dance along the lighted dome, Mix'd and evolved a thousand sprightly ways. The glittering court effuses every pomp ; The circle deepens; beam'd from gaudy robes, Tapers, and sparkling gems, and radiant eyes, A soft effulgence o'er the palace waves : While, a gay insect in his Summer shine, The fop, light fluttering, spreads his mealy wings.
Page 120 - Viola. : She never told her love, But let concealment, like a worm i...
Page 249 - Where no hedge is, there the possession is spoiled: and he that hath no wife will wander up and down mourning.
Page 185 - ... into a chair, and covered his face with his hands, while his whole frame shook with the violence of internal agitation.
Page 216 - Rowlands' desire was, to depart when his work was finished. To go almost instantly from his labours to his rest was his wish; and his wish was granted. He had been for some time in a declining state of health, but not so as to be kept from doing his duty. Though he did not, for nearly a twelvemonth, go abroad much, yet he preached at home almost as regularly as usual. He was taken rather unwell on the Wednesday previous to his death ; but he was not considered to be seriously ill until Friday ; and...
Page 20 - But raptures and beauty they cannot recall. But yet, all its fond recollections suppressing, One dying wish my fond bosom shall draw. Erin, an exile bequeaths thee his blessing, — Land of my forefathers, Erin go bragh ! Buried and cold, when my heart stills its motion, Green be thy fields, sweetest isle of the ocean, And thy harp-striking bards sing aloud with devotion, Erin ma vourneen, sweet Erin go bragh.
Page 101 - I had passed a long and sleepless night in painful reflection, but towards morning I sunk into a slumber, from which I was aroused by the voice of Montague in the stable-yard, which one of the windows of my apartment overlooked.

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