The Southern Review, 第 7 卷

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Albert Taylor Bledsoe, Sophia M'Ilvaine Bledsoe Herrick
Bledsoe and Browne, 1870
 

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第 307 頁 - By the o'ergrowth of some complexion, Oft breaking down the pales and forts of reason, Or by some habit that too much o'er-leavens The form of plausive manners ; that these men, Carrying, I say, the stamp of one defect, Being nature's livery, or fortune's star, Their virtues else, be they as pure as grace, As infinite as man may undergo, Shall in the general censure take corruption From that particular fault : the dram of eale Doth all the noble substance of a doubt To his own scandal.
第 310 頁 - Ghost. Murder most foul, as in the best it is ; But this most foul, strange, and unnatural.
第 292 頁 - tis none to you; for there is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so. To me it is a prison.
第 296 頁 - I have of late — but wherefore I know not — lost all my mirth, forgone all custom of exercises; and indeed it goes so heavily with my disposition that this goodly frame, the earth, seems to me a sterile promontory, this most excellent canopy, the air, look you, this brave o'erhanging firmament, this majestical roof fretted with golden fire, why, it appears no other thing to me than a foul and pestilent congregation of vapours.
第 300 頁 - He took me by the wrist and held me hard ; Then goes he to the length of all his arm, And with his other hand thus o'er his brow, He falls to such perusal of my face As he would draw it.
第 310 頁 - But that I am forbid To tell the secrets of my prison-house, I could a tale unfold whose lightest word Would harrow up thy soul, freeze thy young blood, Make thy two eyes, like stars, start from their spheres, Thy knotted and combined locks to part And each particular hair to stand on end, Like quills upon the fretful porcupine : But this eternal blazon must not be To ears of flesh and blood.
第 311 頁 - I'll wipe away all trivial fond records, All saws of books, all forms, all pressures past, That youth and observation copied there...
第 311 頁 - Taint not thy mind, nor let thy soul contrive Against thy mother aught; leave her to heaven, And to those thorns that in her bosom lodge To prick and sting her.
第 300 頁 - I'll tent him to the quick : if he but blench, I know my course. The spirit that I have seen May be the devil : and the devil hath power T' assume a pleasing shape ; yea, and perhaps Out of my weakness and my melancholy, As he is very potent with such spirits, Abuses me to damn me : I'll have grounds More relative than this : — the play's the thing Wherein I'll catch the conscience of the king.
第 298 頁 - gainst that season comes Wherein our Saviour's birth is celebrated, The bird of dawning singeth all night long...

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