Self, by the author of 'Cecil'.

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Strana 181 - Their tinsel show, and a' that; The honest man, though e'er sae poor, Is king o' men for a' that. Ye see yon birkie ca'da lord, Wha struts, and stares, and a' that — Though hundreds worship at his word, He's but a coof for a' that; For a* that, and a' that, His riband, star, and a' that ; The man of independent mind, He looks and laughs at a
Strana 243 - Pictures, like these, dear madam, to design, Asks no firm hand, and no unerring line ; Some...
Strana 259 - Grief fills the room up of my absent child, Lies in his bed, walks up and down with me, Puts on his pretty looks, repeats his words, Remembers me of all his gracious parts, Stuffs out his vacant garments with his form; Then, have I reason to be fond of grief ? Fare you well: had you such a loss as I, I could give better comfort than you do.
Strana 213 - Lear. Does any here know me ? This is not Lear : Does Lear walk thus ? speak thus ? Where are his eyes ? Either his notion weakens, or his discernings Are lethargied, — Ha ! waking ? 'tis not so, Who is it that can tell me who I am ? Fool.
Strana 69 - What years, i' faith? Vio. About your years, my lord. DUKE. Too old, by heaven : let still the woman take An elder than herself : so wears she to him, So sways she level in her husband's heart...
Strana 60 - Lesley As she gaed o'er the border? She's gane, like Alexander, To spread her conquests farther. To see her is to love her, And love but her for ever; For Nature made her what she is, And ne'er made sic anither! Thou art a queen, Fair Lesley, Thy subjects we, before thee; Thou art divine, Fair Lesley. The hearts o
Strana 276 - The very shadows of the clouds Have power to shake me as they pass; I question things and do not find One that will answer to my mind; And all the world appears unkind.
Strana 223 - Pompey, are sui amantes sine rivali, are many times unfortunate. And whereas they have all their time sacrificed to themselves, they become in the end themselves sacrifices to the inconstancy of fortune, whose wings they thought by their self-wisdom to have pinioned.
Strana 265 - Secure us kindly in our native night. Or, if to wit a coxcomb make pretence, Guard the sure barrier between that and sense; Or quite unravel all the reas'ning thread, And hang some curious cobweb in its stead! As, forced from wind-guns, lead itself can fly, And pond'rous slugs cut swiftly through the sky...
Strana 311 - ... far away ! She never knew That I had blood upon my breast : And yet, (although she loved me much,) I know not why, she could not rest. I strove to cheer her love, — to stir Her pride — but, ah, she had no pride ! We loved each other ; — yet she pined : We loved each other ; — yet she died ! She died, as fading roses die, Although the warm and healing air Comes breathing forth and wraps them round : She died, despite my love and care.

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