Old English Drama: The second maiden's tragedy

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Hurst, Robinson, and Company, 1825
 

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Стр. 73 - Pack, clouds, away! and welcome, day! With night we banish sorrow. Sweet air, blow soft; mount, lark, aloft To give my love good-morrow. Wings from the wind, to please her mind, Notes from the lark, I'll borrow; Bird, prune thy wing; nightingale, sing, To give my love good-morrow.
Стр. 73 - I'll borrow. Wake from thy nest, robin-redbreast, Sing, birds, in every furrow ; And from each bill, let music shrill Give my fair Love good-morrow ! Blackbird and thrush in every bush, Stare, linnet, and cock-sparrow ! You pretty elves, amongst yourselves Sing my fair Love good-morrow ; To give my Love good-morrow Sing, birds, in every furrow...
Стр. 17 - Now what is love I will thee tell, It is the fountain and the well, Where pleasure and repentance dwell...
Стр. 17 - It is the fountain, and the well, Where pleasure and repentance dwell: It is perhaps the sansing bell, That rings all in to heaven or hell, And this is love, and this is love, as I hear tell. Now what is love I will you show: A thing that creeps and cannot go; A prize that passeth to and fro; A thing for me, a thing for mo...
Стр. 64 - Tis poor, and not becoming perfect gentry To build their glories at their fathers' cost, But at their own expense of blood or virtue, To raise them living monuments ; our birth Is not our own act ; honour upon trust Our ill deeds forfeit ; and the wealthy sums Purchas'd by others' fame or sweat, will be Our stain, for we inherit nothing truly But what our actions make us worthy of...
Стр. 73 - Ans. Like a most faithful. Vot. You shall have her mind, e'en as it comes to me, Though I undo her by't ; your friendship, sir, Is the sweet mistress that I only serve ; I prize the roughness of a man's embrace. Before the soft lips of a hundred ladies. Ans. And that's an honest mind of thee. Vot. Lock yourself, sir.
Стр. 28 - Favours have glean'd too much :* pray pardon me, If it were mine, they should go look their, bracelets, Or stay till the next crop...
Стр. 28 - I'd made a fearful separation on thee ; 1 would have sent thy soul to a darker prison Than any made of clay, and thy dead body As a token to the lustful king, thy master. Art thou struck down so soon with the short sound Of this small earthly instrument, and do'st thou So little fear the eternal noise of hell ? What's she ? does she not bear thy daughter's name ? How stirs thy blood, sir ? is there a dead feeling Of all things fatherly and honest in thee ? Say thou cou'dst be content for greatness...

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