The dramatic works of Massinger and Ford, with an intr. by H. Coleridge. [2 pt. With an additional engr. title-leaf dated 1839].

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Page xxv - EPITAPH ON THE COUNTESS OF PEMBROKE. UNDERNEATH this sable hearse Lies the subject of all verse, Sidney's sister, Pembroke's mother ; Death ! ere thou hast slain another, Learned, and fair, and good as she, Time shall throw a dart at thee.
Page lvi - Amid the groves, under the shadowy hills, The generations are prepared ; the pangs, The internal pangs, are ready ; the dread strife Of poor humanity's afflicted will Struggling in vain with ruthless destiny.
Page xli - Nay, their endeavour keeps in the wonted pace: but there is, sir, an aery of children, little eyases, that cry out on the top of question, and are most tyrannically clapp'd for't: these are now the fashion, and so berattle the common stages — so they call them — that many wearing rapiers are afraid of goose-quills and dare scarce come thither.
Page 1 - To glorify their Tempe, bred in me Desire of visiting that paradise. To Thessaly I came; and living private, Without acquaintance of more sweet companions Than the old inmates to my love, my thoughts, I day by day frequented silent groves And solitary walks. One morning early This accident encounter'd me : I heard The sweetest and most ravishing contention, That art (and) nature ever were at strife in.
Page 1 - Some time thus spent, the young man grew at last Into a pretty anger, that a bird Whom art had never taught...
Page 7 - No, my dear lady, I could weary stars, And force the wakeful moon to lose her eyes, $ By my late watching, but to wait on you. When at your prayers you kneel before the altar, Methinks I'm singing with some quire in heaven, So blest I hold me in your company...
Page 35 - A lightless sulphur, chok'd with smoky fogs Of an infected darkness ; in this place Dwell many thousand thousand sundry sorts Of never-dying deaths ; there damned souls Roar without pity ; there are gluttons fed With toads and adders ; there is burning oil Pour'd down the drunkard's throat ; the usurer Is forc'd to sup whole draughts of molten gold...
Page 7 - I'll set that day Which gave thee to me. Little did I hope To meet such worlds of comfort in thyself, This little, pretty body, when I, coming Forth of the temple, heard my beggar-boy, My sweet-faced, godly beggar-boy, crave an alms. Which with glad hand I gave, with lucky hand...
Page 296 - Sirrah, I'll have you know, whom I think worthy To sit at my table, be he ne'er so mean, When I am present, is not your companion.
Page 326 - My brother made thy place of rest his bosom, Thou being the keeper of his heart, a mistress To be hugg'd ever. In by-corners of This sacred room, silver, in bags heap'd up, Like billets saw'd and ready for the fire, Unworthy to hold fellowship with bright gold, That flow'd about the room, conceal'd itself.

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