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began body called close cold comes cook course Cross dead dear Doctor door drop Ellen eyes face fact fame Farewell give gone grave green half hand hard hast head hear heart Heaven hope horse Hunks keep King lady land learned leave letter light living London look Lord Miss moon mouth never night nose o'er once play pocket poor round seemed short sigh sing sleep soon sort soul stand stone stood street sure sweet tail teach tears tell thee there's thing thou thought thro took truth turn Twas walk washing wish write young
Stran 172 - The world recedes; it disappears! Heaven opens on my eyes! my ears With sounds seraphic ring: Lend, lend your wings! I mount! I fly! O Grave! where is thy victory? O Death! where is thy sting?
Stran 208 - element,' but the word is over-worn. \Exit. Vio. This fellow is wise enough to play the fool ; And to do that well craves a kind of wit : He must observe their mood on whom he jests, The quality of persons, and the time, And, like the haggard, check at every feather That comes before his eye.
Stran 102 - SWEET MEMORY, wafted by thy gentle gale, Oft up the stream of Time I turn my sail, To view the fairy-haunts of long-lost hours, Blest with far greener shades, far fresher flowers.
Stran 253 - I'll give thee nothing, returned I ; the guardians of the temple should pay you your wages, friend, and not permit you to squeeze thus from every spectator. When we pay our money at the door to see a show, we never give more as we are going out. Sure, the guardians of the temple can never think they get enough. Show me the gate ; if I stay longer, I may probably meet with more of those ecclesiastical beggars.
Stran 266 - Till pots, and pans, and mighty kettles ring. 0 culinary Sage ! (I do not mean the herb in use, That always goes along with goose,) How have I feasted on thy page ! " When like a lobster boiled the morn From black to red began to turn," Till midnight, when I went to bed, And clapped my tewah-diddle* on my head.
Stran 47 - What is a modern poet's fate ? To write his thoughts upon a slate ; The critic spits on what is done, Gives it a wipe — and all is gone.
Stran 242 - And who is poor Maria? said I. The love and pity of all the villages around us; said the postillion — it is but three years ago, that the sun did not shine upon so fair, so quick-witted and amiable a maid; and better fate did Maria deserve, than to have her Banns forbid, by the intrigues of the curate of the parish who...
Stran 262 - Kingdom, or that he ought not to enjoy the same, here is his Champion, who saith that he lieth, and is a false traitor, being ready in person to combat with him, and in this quarrel will adventure his life against him on what day soever he shall be appointed.
Stran 147 - And tune the various song ? Two hurdy-gurdists, and a poor Street-Handel grinding at my door, Are all my " tuneful throng." Where are ye, early-purling streams, Whose waves reflect the morning beams And colours of the skies ? My rills are only puddle-drains From shambles— or reflect the stains Of calimanco-dyes. Sweet are the little brooks that run O'er pebbles glancing in the sun, Singing in soothing tones : Not thus the city streamlets flow ; They make no music as they go...