The Works of Robert G. Ingersoll - Volume 3 - Lectures (Shakespeare) - Paperbound

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stealing ChildrenII The Days of YouthHis EducationChooses
248
The History of Intellectual Progress is written in the Lives
308
MartyrdomThe First to die for Truth without Expectation of
395
BibleEstablishment of the Mosaic CodeMoses not the Author
519

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第 93 頁 - John Anderson my jo. John Anderson my jo, John, We clamb the hill thegither ; And mony a canty day, John, We've had wi' ane anither : Now we maun totter down, John, But hand in hand we'll go, And sleep thegither at the foot, John Anderson my jo.
第 296 頁 - Dark mother always gliding near with soft feet, Have none chanted for thee a chant of fullest welcome? Then I chant it for thee, I glorify thee above all, I bring thee a song that when thou must indeed come, come unfalteringly. Approach strong...
第 61 頁 - Time hath, my lord, a wallet at his back, Wherein he puts alms for oblivion, A great-sized monster of ingratitudes: Those scraps are good deeds past; which are devour'd As fast as they are made, forgot as soon As done...
第 42 頁 - This castle hath a pleasant seat ; the air Nimbly and sweetly recommends itself Unto our gentle senses. Ban. This guest of summer, The temple-haunting martlet, does approve By his lov'd mansionry that the heaven's breath Smells wooingly here : no jutty, frieze, Buttress, nor coign of vantage, but this bird Hath made his pendent bed and procreant cradle : Where they most breed and haunt, I have observ'd The air is delicate.
第 295 頁 - Lo, the most excellent sun so calm and haughty, The violet and purple morn with just-felt breezes, The gentle soft-born measureless light, The miracle spreading bathing all...
第 58 頁 - All murder'd: for within the hollow crown That rounds the mortal temples of a king Keeps Death his court, and there the antic sits, Scoffing his state and grinning at his pomp...
第 159 頁 - ... and now beware of rashness. Beware of rashness, but with energy and sleepless vigilance go forward and give us victories.
第 67 頁 - I am dying, Egypt, dying ; only I here importune death awhile, until Of many thousand kisses the poor last I lay upon thy lips.— Cleo.

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