Half Hours of English History: From the Roman Period to the Death of Elizabeth

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Charles Knight
F. Warne, 1866 - Great Britain - 687 pages

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Page 450 - Came there a certain lord, neat, and trimly dress'd, Fresh as a bridegroom ; and his chin new reap'd Show'd like a stubble-land at harvest-home ; He was perfumed like a milliner ; And 'twixt his finger and his thumb he held A pouncet-box, which ever and anon He gave his nose and took 't away again ; Who therewith angry, when it next came there, Took it in snuff...
Page 568 - Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders, This many summers in a sea of glory; But far beyond my depth : my high-blown pride At length broke under me ; and now has left me, Weary and old with service, to the mercy Of a rude stream, that must forever hide me. Vain pomp and glory of this world, I hate ye : I feel my heart new open'd. O, how wretched Is that poor man that hangs on princes...
Page 480 - That he which hath no stomach to this fight, Let him depart ; his passport shall be made And crowns for convoy put into his purse. We would not die in that man's company That fears his fellowship to die with us.
Page 63 - Hurled headlong flaming from the ethereal sky, With hideous ruin and combustion, down To bottomless perdition, there to dwell In adamantine chains and penal fire, Who durst defy the Omnipotent to arms.
Page 421 - s talk of graves, of worms, and epitaphs ; Make dust our paper, and with rainy eyes Write sorrow on the bosom of the earth. Let's choose executors, and talk of wills...
Page 421 - All murdered : 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...
Page 454 - By heaven, methinks, it were an easy leap, To pluck bright honour from the pale-fac'd moon; Or dive into the bottom of the deep, Where fathom-line could never touch the ground, And pluck up drowned honour by the locks...
Page 358 - Stay, oh stay! nor thus forlorn Leave me unbless'd, unpitied, here to mourn: In yon bright track, that fires the western skies, They melt, they vanish from my eyes. But oh! what solemn scenes on Snowdon's height Descending slow their glitt'ring skirts unroll?
Page 421 - Let's choose executors, and talk of wills : And yet not so, — for what can we bequeath, Save our deposed bodies to the ground ? Our lands, our lives, and all are Bolingbroke's ; And nothing can we call our own but death, And that small model 15 of the barren earth Which serves as paste and cover to our bones.
Page 451 - Of guns, and drums, and wounds, (God save the mark!) And telling me, the sovereign'st thing on earth Was parmaceti, for an inward bruise; And that it was great pity, so it was, That villainous salt-petre should be digg'd Out of the bowels of the harmless earth, Which many a good tall fellow had destroy'd So cowardly ; and, but for these vile guns, He would himself have been a soldier.

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