Faust: A Tragedy, 第 1 卷

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F.A. Brockhaus, 1876
 

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第339页 - I am gone, sir, And anon, sir, I '11 be with you again In a trice, Like to the Old Vice, Your need to sustain; Who with dagger of lath, In his rage and his wrath, Cries, ah, ha! to the Devil: Like a mad lad, Pare thy nails, dad, Adieu, Goodman Devil!
第397页 - In youth, when I did love, did love, Methought it was very sweet, To contract, O the time, for ah, my behove, O, methought there was nothing meet. But Age, with his stealing steps, Hath clawed me in his clutch, And hath shipped me into the land, As if I have never been such.
第263页 - common impulse all unite to hem it. Yes! to this thought I hold with firm persistence; The last result of wisdom stamps it true: He only earns his freedom and existence, Who daily conquers them anew.
第399页 - A pickaxe and a spade, a spade, For and a shrouding sheet: O, a pit of clay for to be made For such a guest is meet.
第379页 - To the illustrious Goethe a stranger presumes to offer the homage of a literary vassal to his liege-lord, the first of existing writers, who has created the literature of his own country, and illustrated that of Europe.
第264页 - Thus here, by dangers girt, shall glide away Of childhood, manhood, age. the vigorous day: And such a throng I fain would see,— Stand on free soil among a people free! Then dared I hail the Moment fleeing: "Ah. still
第315页 - The light that never was on sea or land, The consecration and the poet's dream.
第11页 - By that, I know the learned lord you are! What you don't touch, is lying leagues afar; What you don't grasp, is wholly lost to you; What you don't reckon, think you, can't be true; What you don't weigh, it has no weight, alas! What you don't coin,
第281页 - All things transitory But as symbols are sent: Earth's insufficiency Here grows to Event: The Indescribable, Here it is done: The Woman-Soul leadeth us Upward and on!
第370页 - any measure, have transfused the broad, yet rich and chaste simplicity of these long iambics; or imitated the tone, as we have done the metre, of that choral song; its rude earnestness, and tortuous, awkward-looking, artless strength, as we have done its dactyls and

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