Is it Good English and Like Matters

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G. Newnes Limited, 1924 - 175页
 

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第144页 - But the father answered never a word, A frozen corpse was he. Lashed to the helm, all stiff and stark, With his face turned to the skies, The lantern gleamed through the gleaming snow On his fixed and glassy eyes. Then the maiden clasped her hands and prayed That saved she might be; And she thought of Christ, who stilled the wave, On the Lake of Galilee.
第138页 - I went down into the garden of nuts to see the fruits of the valley, and to see whether the vine flourished, and the pomegranates budded.
第163页 - My fate cries out, And makes each petty artery in this body As hardy as the Nemean lion's nerve. Still am I call'd. Unhand me, gentlemen. By heaven, I'll make a ghost of him that lets me!
第26页 - OATS [a grain which in England is generally given to horses, but in Scotland supports the people], — Croker.
第86页 - I pray you, in your letters, When you shall these unlucky deeds relate, Speak of me as I am ; nothing extenuate, Nor set down aught in malice...
第171页 - Thou shalt not make to thyself any graven image, nor the likeness of any thing that is in heaven above, or in the earth beneath, or in the water under the earth. Thou shalt not bow down to them, nor worship them...
第140页 - O good old man ; how well in thee appears The constant service of the antique world, When service sweat for duty, not for meed ! Thou art not for the fashion of these times, Where none will sweat, but for promotion; And having that, do choke their service up Even with the having: it is not so with thee.
第30页 - Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn, Brushing with hasty steps the dews away, To meet the sun upon the upland lawn. [Him have we seen the greenwood side along While o'er the heath we hied, our labour done, Oft as the woodlark piped her farewell song With wistful eyes pursue the setting sun...
第171页 - Six days shalt thou labour, and do all that thou hast to do; but the seventh day is the Sabbath of the Lord thy God.
第29页 - In still small accents whispering from the ground, A grateful earnest of eternal peace. No more, with reason and thyself at strife, Give anxious cares and endless wishes room; But through the cool sequester'd vale of life Pursue the silent tenor of thy doom.

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