Ainsworth's Magazine: A Miscellany of Romance, General Literature, & Art, 第 24 卷

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William Harrison Ainsworth
Chapman and Hall, 1853

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第534页 - Since nought so stockish, hard and full of rage, But music for the time doth change his nature. The man that hath no music in himself, Nor is not moved with concord of sweet sounds, Is fit for treasons, stratagems and spoils; The motions of his spirit are dull as night And his affections dark as Erebus: Let no such man be trusted.
第359页 - Truly the light is sweet, and a pleasant thing it is for the eyes to behold the sun...
第27页 - The current, that with gentle murmur glides, Thou know'st, being stopp'd, impatiently doth rage ; But, when his fair course is not hindered, He makes sweet music with the enamel'd stones, Giving a gentle kiss to every sedge He overtaketh in his pilgrimage ; And so by many winding nooks he strays With willing sport to the wild ocean.
第350页 - Truly, shepherd, in respect of itself, it is a good life; but in respect that it is a shepherd's life, it is naught. In respect that it is solitary, I like it very well; but in respect that it is private, it is a very vile life. Now in respect it is in the fields, it pleaseth me well; but in respect it is not in the court, it is tedious.
第295页 - O, wad some Power the giftie gie us to see oursels as others see us!
第34页 - Their dearest action in the tented field ; And little of this great world can I speak, More than pertains to feats of broil and battle...
第34页 - I have ta'en away this old man's daughter, It is most true; true, I have married her; The very head and front of my offending Hath this extent, no more. Rude am I in my speech, And little bless'd with the set phrase of peace; For since these arms of mine had seven years...
第403页 - A something, light as air — a look, A word unkind or wrongly taken — Oh ! love, that tempests never shook, A breath, a touch like this hath shaken.
第303页 - 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.
第534页 - There's not the smallest orb which thou behold'st But in his motion like an angel sings, Still quiring to the young-ey'd cherubins; Such harmony is in immortal souls, But whilst this muddy vesture of decay Doth grossly close it in, we cannot hear it. Enter MUSICIANS Come, ho, and wake Diana with a hymn; With sweetest touches pierce your mistress

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