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Página 132 - Think'st thou that she whose only light In this dim world from thee hath shone Could bear the long, the cheerless night That must be hers when thou art gone ? That I can live, and let thee go, Who art my life itself? No, no ! When the stem dies, the leaf that grew Out of its heart must perish too. Then turn to me, my own love, turn, Before, like thee, I fade and burn ; Cling to these yet cool lips and share The last pure life that lingers there.
Página 177 - Farewell the tranquil mind ! Farewell content ! Farewell the plumed troop, and the big wars, That make ambition virtue ! O, farewell ! Farewell the neighing steed, and the shrill trump, The spirit-stirring drum, the ear-piercing fife, The royal banner ; and all quality. Pride, pomp, and circumstance of glorious war ! And O, you mortal engines, whose rude throats The immortal Jove's dread clamours counterfeit, Farewell ! Othello's occupation's gone ! lago.
Página 132 - I'd shed it all, To give thy brow one minute's calm. Nay, turn not from me that dear face : Am I not thine — thy own loved bride — The one, the chosen one, whose place In life or death is by thy side ? Think'st thou that she, whose only light, In this dim world, from thee hath shone, Could bear the long, the cheerless night, That must be hers, when thou art gone ? That I can live and let thee go, Who art my life itself ? No, no.
Página 42 - Marchioness. Fare thee well, and if for ever, then for ever fare thee well— and put up the chain, Marchioness, in case of accidents.
Página 41 - To have a tear for pity, and a hand Open as day to melting charity...
Página 102 - When the Devil was sick, The Devil a monk would be ; But when the Devil got well, The Devil a monk was he.
Página 55 - Worth makes the man, the want of it the fellow ; The rest is all but leather and prunella.
Página 129 - AT regina gravi jamdudum saucia cura Vulnus alit venis, et cseco carpitur igni.
Página 35 - ... comme de sotise;' op cit I Ch. 50, p. 337. 83. ibid. p. 173. 84. A. Camus, Le Mythe de Sisyphe, in Essais, (Paris. 1965) p. 101. 85. op. cit. pp. 176-7. Cf. Boileau's Satire IV, 1664, dedicated to Le Vayer's son: En ce monde il n'est point de parfaite sagesse; Tous les hommes sont fous, et malgre tous leurs soins, Ne different entr'eux que du plus, ou du moins.
Página 152 - The dregs of time, and vile ohlivion's prey, Hold in large fee the world, and, overblown With empty thoughts, grow lavish with decay.

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