The Epigrammatists: A Selection from the Epigrammatic Literature of Ancient, Mediæval, and Modern Times

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G. Bell, 1875 - Всего страниц: 695

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Стр. 561 - WHY so pale and wan, fond lover? Prithee, why so pale? Will, when looking well can't move her, Looking ill prevail? Prithee, why so pale?
Стр. 237 - True, I talk of dreams ; Which are the children of an idle brain, Begot of nothing but vain fantasy ; Which is as thin of substance as the air ; And more inconstant than the wind...
Стр. 214 - O, who can hold a fire in his hand, By thinking on the frosty Caucasus ? " Or cloy the hungry edge of appetite, By bare imagination of a feast ? Or wallow naked in December snow, By thinking on fantastic k summer's heat?
Стр. 458 - Visit her face too roughly. Heaven and earth ! Must I remember ? why, she would hang on him, As if increase of appetite had grown By what it fed on : And yet, within a month,— Let me not think on't, — Frailty, thy name is woman ! — A little month ; or ere those shoes were old, With which she follow'd my poor father's body, Like Niobe, all tears : — why she, even she, — O heaven ! a beast, that wants discourse of reason...
Стр. 166 - Seems, madam ! nay, it is ; I know not seems. 'Tis not alone my inky cloak, good mother, Nor customary suits of solemn black...
Стр. 155 - A man he was to all the country dear, And passing rich with forty pounds a year...
Стр. 397 - Euripides, and Sophocles to us, Pacuvius, Accius, him of Cordova, dead, To life again, to hear thy buskin tread And shake a stage; or when thy socks were on, Leave thee alone for the comparison Of all that insolent Greece or haughty Rome Sent forth, or since did from their ashes come.
Стр. 432 - O gentle sleep ! Nature's soft nurse, how have I frighted thee, That thou no more wilt weigh...
Стр. 267 - THREE Poets, in three distant ages born, Greece, Italy, and England did adorn. The first in loftiness of thought surpassed; The next in majesty •, In both the last. The force of Nature could no further go ; To make a third, she joined the former two.
Стр. 34 - Ay me ! I fondly dream, Had ye been there — for what could that have done? What could the Muse herself that Orpheus bore, The Muse herself, for her enchanting son, Whom universal Nature did lament, When, by the rout that made the hideous roar, His gory visage down the stream was sent, Down the swift Hebrus to the Lesbian shore?

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