Miss Daisy Dimity, by the author of 'Queenie'.

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Strana 37 - Biron they call him ; but a merrier man, Within the limit of becoming mirth, I never spent an hour's talk withal : His eye begets occasion for his wit ; For every object that the one doth catch The other turns to a mirth-moving jest...
Strana 4 - Sweet Daisy ! oft I talk to thee For thou art worthy, Thou unassuming Common-place Of Nature, with that homely face, And yet with something of a grace Which Love makes for thee...
Strana 138 - Of all the days that's in the week I dearly love but one day — And that's the day that comes betwixt A Saturday and Monday...
Strana 16 - In the spring a fuller crimson comes upon the robin's breast; In the spring the wanton lapwing gets himself another crest; In the spring a livelier iris changes on the burnish'd dove; In the spring a young man's fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love.
Strana 156 - And trust me, dear, good-humour can prevail, When airs, and flights, and screams, and scolding fail; Beauties in vain their pretty eyes may roll ; Charms strike the sight, but merit wins the soul," So spoke the dame, but no applause ensued : Belinda frown'd, Thalestris call'd her prude.
Strana 294 - Grew lovelier from her pencil's shading : She botanized; I envied each Young blossom in her boudoir fading : She warbled...
Strana 74 - The man that hails you Tom or Jack, And proves by thumps upon your back How he esteems your merit, Is such a friend, that one had need Be very much his friend indeed, .
Strana 297 - I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER I REMEMBER, I remember The house where I was born, The little window where the sun Came peeping in at morn ; He never came a wink too soon, Nor brought too long a day, But now I often wish the night Had borne my breath away ! I remember, I remember...
Strana 183 - A weary lot is thine, fair maid, A weary lot is thine ! To pull the thorn thy brow to braid, And press the rue for wine ! A lightsome eye, a soldier's mien, A feather of the blue, A doublet of the Lincoln green, — No more of me you knew, My love ! No more of me you knew. " This morn is merry June, I trow, The rose is budding fain ;* But she shall bloom in winter snow, Ere we two meet again.
Strana 263 - Now sleeps the crimson petal, now the white ; Nor waves the cypress in the palace walk ; Nor winks the gold fin in the porphyry font : The fire-fly wakens : waken thou with me. Now droops the milkwhite peacock like a ghost, And like a ghost she glimmers on to me. Now lies the Earth all Danae to the stars, And all thy heart lies open unto me.

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