Craven Derby; or, The lordship by tenure, by the author of 'Crockford's'.

الغلاف الأمامي
1833

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الصفحة 47 - In the most high and palmy state of Rome, A little ere the mightiest Julius fell, The graves stood tenantless, and the sheeted dead Did squeak and gibber in the Roman streets...
الصفحة 98 - The quality of mercy is not strained; It droppeth, as the gentle rain from heaven Upon the place beneath ; it is twice blessed ; It blesseth him that gives, and him that takes...
الصفحة 70 - O MEMORY ! thou fond deceiver, Still importunate and vain, To former joys recurring ever, And turning all the past to pain : Thou, like the world, th...
الصفحة xiii - Oft in the stilly night Ere slumber's chain has bound me, Fond Memory brings the light Of other days around me : The smiles, the tears Of boyhood's years, The words of love then spoken ; The eyes that shone, Now dimm'd and gone, The cheerful hearts now broken ! Thus in the stilly night Ere slumber's chain has bound me, Sad Memory brings the light Of other days around me.
الصفحة 99 - You have given him dominion over the works of your hands; you have put all things under his feet, all sheep and oxen, and also the beasts of the field, the birds of the air, and the fish of the sea, whatever passes along the paths of the sea.
الصفحة 147 - Altho' his son has found a nobler father. Eventful day! how hast thou chang'd my state! Once on the cold, and winter shaded side Of a bleak hill, mischance had rooted me, Never to thrive, child of another soil : Transplanted now to the gay sunny vale, Like the green thorn of May my fortune flowers.
الصفحة 86 - That it is jealousy's peculiar nature To swell small things to great ; nay, out of nought To conjure much, and then to lose its reason Amid the hideous phantoms it has form'd. Alon. Had I ten thousand lives, I'd give them all To be deceived. I fear 'tis doomsday with me.
الصفحة 51 - That light we see is burning in my hall ; how far that little candle throws its beams, so shines a good deed in a naughty world...
الصفحة 98 - But, look, the morn in russet mantle clad, Walks o'er the dew of yon high eastern hill.

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