A Grammar of the English Language: For the Use of Common Schools, Academies and Seminaries

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Newman & Ivison, 1854 - 250 頁
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第 217 頁 - In the corrupted currents of this world Offence's gilded hand may shove by justice, And oft 'tis seen the wicked prize itself Buys out the law...
第 249 頁 - Thou hast brought a vine out of Egypt : Thou hast cast out the heathen, and planted it. Thou preparedst room before it, And didst cause it to take deep root, And it filled the land. The hills were covered with the shadow of it, And the boughs thereof were like the goodly cedars. She sent out her boughs unto the sea, And her branches unto the river.
第 223 頁 - Ah little think the gay licentious proud, Whom pleasure, power, and affluence surround; They, who their thoughtless hours in giddy mirth, And wanton, often cruel, riot waste; Ah little think they, while they dance along, How many feel, this very moment, death And all the sad variety of pain.
第 219 頁 - tis a consummation Devoutly to be wish'd. To die, to sleep; To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub; For in that sleep of death what dreams may come When we have shuffled off this mortal coil, Must give us pause: there's the respect That makes calamity of so long life...
第 217 頁 - And, like a man to double business bound, I stand in pause where I shall first begin, And both neglect. What if this cursed hand Were thicker than itself with brother's blood, Is there not rain enough in the sweet heavens To wash it white as snow?
第 219 頁 - A little learning is a dangerous thing; Drink deep, or taste not the Pierian spring: There shallow draughts intoxicate the brain. And drinking largely sobers us again.
第 77 頁 - Look not thou upon the wine when it is red, when it giveth his colour in the cup, when it moveth itself aright: at the last it biteth like a serpent, and stingeth like an adder.
第 217 頁 - Were thicker than itself with brother's blood, Is there not rain enough in the sweet heavens To wash it white as snow/ Whereto serves mercy, But to confront the visage of offence/ And...
第 215 頁 - TIRED Nature's sweet restorer, balmy Sleep ! He, like the world, his ready visit pays Where Fortune smiles ; the wretched he forsakes ; Swift on his downy pinion flies from woe, And lights on lids unsullied with a tear.
第 218 頁 - Even to the teeth and forehead of our faults, To give in evidence. What then ? what rests ? Try what repentance can : What can it not ? Yet what can it, when one can not repent ? O wretched state ! O bosom, black as death ! O limed soul; that struggling to be free, Art more engag'd ! Help, angels, make assay ! Bow, stubborn knees ! and, heart, with strings of steel, Be soft as sinews of the new-born babe; All may be well ! [Retires, and kneels.

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