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Стр. 276 - Until he came unto the Wash Of Edmonton so gay; And there he threw the Wash about On both sides of the way, Just like unto a trundling mop, Or a wild goose at play. At Edmonton his loving wife From the balcony spied Her tender husband, wondering much To see how he did ride. "Stop, stop, John Gilpin! — Here's the house!" They all at once did cry: "The dinner waits, and we are tired;
Стр. 278 - My head is twice as big as yours, They therefore needs must fit. "But let me scrape the dirt away That hangs upon your face; And stop and eat, for well you may Be in a hungry case." Said John, "It is my wedding-day, And all the world would stare, If wife should dine at Edmonton, And I should dine at Ware.
Стр. 198 - Ye winds, that have made me your sport. Convey to this desolate shore Some cordial endearing report Of a land I shall visit no more. My friends, do they now and then send A wish or a thought after me.' O tell me I yet have a friend, Though a friend I am never to see.
Стр. 197 - I AM monarch of all I survey, My right there is none to dispute ; From the centre all round to the sea I am lord of the fowl and the brute. 0 Solitude ! where are the charms That sages have seen in thy face ? Better dwell in the midst of alarms Than reign in this horrible place.
Стр. 278 - Ah, luckless speech and bootless boast ! for which he paid full dear ; For while he spake a braying ass did sing most loud and clear ; Whereat his horse did snort as he had heard a lion roar, And galloped off with all his might, as he had done before.
Стр. 274 - He grasp'd the mane with both his hands, And eke with all his might. His horse, who never in that sort Had handled been before, What thing upon his back had got Did wonder more and more.
Стр. 274 - Fair and softly," John he cried, But John he cried in vain; That trot became a gallop soon, In spite of curb and rein. So stooping down, as needs he must Who...
Стр. 199 - Compared with the speed of its flight, The tempest itself lags behind, And the swift-winged arrows of light. When I think of my own native land In a moment I seem to be there; But alas ! recollection at hand Soon hurries me back to despair. But the sea-fowl is gone to her nest, The beast is laid down in his lair ; Even here is a season of rest, And I to my cabin repair. There's mercy in every place, And mercy, encouraging thought! Gives even affliction a grace And reconciles man to his lot.
Стр. 187 - I praise the Frenchman,* his remark was shrewd — How sweet, how passing sweet, is solitude ! But grant me still a friend in my retreat, Whom I may whisper— solitude is sweet.