An Apology for the Life of George Anne Bellamy, Late of Covent-Garden Theatre, Volumen5

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author, and sold, 1786

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Página 18 - Ah me! for aught that ever I could read. Could ever hear by tale or history, The course of true love never did run smooth: But, either it was different in blood; Her.
Página 153 - In the corrupted currents of this world Offence's gilded hand may shove by justice, And oft 'tis seen the wicked prize itself Buys out the law; but 'tis not so above; There is no shuffling, there the action lies In his true nature, and we ourselves compell'd Even to the teeth and forehead of our faults To give in evidence.
Página 126 - We, Hermia, like two artificial Gods, Created with our needles both one flower, Both on one sampler, sitting on one cushion...
Página 171 - I wondered any gentleman who profefled liberal fentiments could advife a breach of truft. He told me that, if he had got hold of it, he would have burnt it, as he was fure two capital performers had figned it, who would not have done fo, had another paper been preferrted in their favour.
Página 150 - Tis thou, thrice sweet and gracious goddess, addressing myself to LIBERTY, whom all in public or in private worship, whose taste is grateful, and ever will be so, till NATURE herself shall change no tint of words can spot thy snowy mantle...
Página 18 - That, in ° a fpleen, unfolds both heaven and earth, And ere a man hath power to fay, — Behold ! The jaws of darknefs do devour it up : So quick bright things come to...
Página 68 - Glasgow, told his auditors that he dreamed the preceding night he was in the infernal regions, at a grand entertainment, where all the devils...
Página 3 - Whofe edge is (harper than the fword ; whofe tongue Outvenoms all the worms of Nile ; whofe breath Rides on the polling winds, and doth belie All corners of the world : kings, queens, and dates, Maids, matrons, nay, the fecrets of the grave This viperous (lander enters.
Página 50 - Ye Poets, I covet no bays, She fmil'd — a reward for my fong. I find the God Pan 's in the right, No fame 's like the fair one's applaufe, And Cupid muft crown with delight The fhepherd that lings in his caufe.

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