The Pride of the Village; Or, The Farmer's Daughters

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G. Virtue, 1837 - 401 páginas
 

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Página 152 - Seems, madam! nay, it is; I know not seems. 'Tis not alone my inky cloak, good mother, Nor customary suits of solemn black, Nor windy suspiration of forc'd breath, No, nor the fruitful river in the eye.
Página 407 - tis the mind that makes the body rich ; And as the sun breaks through the darkest clouds, So honour peereth in the meanest habit. What, is the jay more precious than the lark, Because his feathers are more beautiful ? Or is the adder better than the eel, Because his painted skin contents the eye ? O, no, good Kate ; neither art thou the worse For this poor furniture, and mean array.
Página 722 - Geffrey's wife ; Young Arthur is my son, and he is lost : I am not mad ; — I would to heaven, I were For then, 'tis like I should forget myself...
Página 472 - Merciful heaven! What, man! ne'er pull your hat upon your brows; Give sorrow words: the grief that does not speak Whispers the o'erfraught heart, and bids it break.
Página 233 - The spirit, that I have seen, May be a devil: and the devil hath power To assume a pleasing shape; yea, and, perhaps, Out of my weakness, and my melancholy, (As he is very potent with such spirits,) Abuses me to damn me: I'll have grounds More relative than this: The play's the thing, Wherein I'll catch the conscience of the king.
Página 537 - tis vain to curse, 'Tis weakness to upbraid thee ; Hate cannot wish thee worse Than guilt and shame have made thee.
Página 112 - And still they gazed, and still the wonder grew That one small head could carry all he knew.
Página 685 - Yet I curse thee not, in sadness, — Still I feel how dear thou wert ; Oh ! I could not — e'en in madness...
Página 685 - tis useless to upbraid thee With thy past or present state, — What thou wast — my fancy made thee ; What thou art — I know too late.
Página 108 - They loved for years, with growing tenderness ; They had but one pure prayer to waft above — One heart — one hope— one dream — and that was Love. They loved for years, through danger and distress, Till they were parted, and his spotless fame Became the mark of hate and obloquy — Till the remembering tear that dimm'd her eye Was dried on blushes of repentant shame.

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