The Busy Body: A Comedy

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J. Bell, 1797 - 112 pages
 

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Page 16 - Lie there, thou shadow of an emperor; The place thou pressest on thy mother earth Is all thy empire now: now it contains thee; Some few days hence, and then 'twill be too large, When thou'rt contracted in thy narrow urn, Shrunk to a few cold ashes; then Octavia (For Cleopatra will not live to see it), Octavia then will have...
Page 46 - As meeting streams, both to ourselves were lost; We were one mass; we could not give or take, But from the same; for he was I, I he.
Page 56 - Dolabella, which way shall I turn? I find a secret yielding in my soul ; But Cleopatra, who would die with me, Must she be left? Pity pleads for Octavia; But does it not plead more for Cleopatra ? Vent.
Page 64 - Men are but children of a larger growth ; Our appetites as apt to change as theirs, And full as craving too, and full as vain ; And yet the soul, shut up in her dark room, Viewing so clear abroad, at home sees nothing; But, like a mole in earth, busy and blind, Works all her folly up, and casts it outward To the world's open view...
Page 105 - Caesar's pride? What! to be led in triumph through the streets, A spectacle to base plebeian eyes; While some dejected friend of Antony's, Close in a corner, shakes his head, and mutters A secret curse on her who ruin'd him?
Page 17 - I'm now turned wild, a commoner of nature; Of all forsaken, and forsaking all; Live in a shady forest's sylvan scene, Stretched at my length beneath some blasted oak, I lean my head upon the mossy bark, And look just of a piece as I grew from it ; My uncombed locks, matted like mistletoe, Hang o'er my hoary face; a murm'ring brook Runs at my foot.
Page 15 - tis my birthday, and I'll keep it With double pomp of sadness. 'Tis what the day deserves, which gave me breath. Why was I raised the meteor of the world, Hung in the skies, and blazing as I travelled, Till all my fires were spent; and then cast downward, To be trod out by Caesar ? VENT, [aside]. On my soul, 'Tis mournful, wondrous mournful!
Page 49 - That men's desiring eyes were never wearied, But hung upon the object : To soft flutes The silver oars kept time ; and while they played, The hearing gave new pleasure to the sight ; And both to thought.
Page 101 - I will not make a business of a trifle; And yet I cannot look on you, and kill you; Pray turn your face.
Page 24 - Fram'd in the very pride and boast of nature, So perfect, that the gods who form'd you wonder'd At their own skill, and cried, A lucky hit Has mended our design.

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