THE COMPLETE WORKS OF SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE

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Side 169 - If chance will have me king, why, chance may crown me, Without my stir.
Side 171 - Which would be worn now in their newest gloss, Not cast aside so soon. Lady M. Was the hope drunk Wherein you dress'd yourself? hath it slept since, And wakes it now, to look so green and pale At what it did so freely ? From this time Such I account thy love. Art thou...
Side 114 - tis not so deep as a well, nor so wide as a church-door ; but 'tis enough, 'twill serve : ask for me tomorrow, and you shall find me a grave man. I am peppered, I warrant, for this world. A plague o...
Side 139 - This is the excellent foppery of the world, that, when we are sick in fortune,— often the surfeit of our own behavior,— we make guilty of our disasters the sun, the moon, and the stars...
Side 164 - I do not think so ; since he went into France, I have been in continual practice ; I shall win at the odds. But thou wouldst not think how ill all's here about my heart ; but it is no matter.
Side 171 - Take thee that too. A heavy summons lies like lead upon me, And yet I would not sleep. Merciful powers, Restrain in me the cursed thoughts that nature Gives way to in repose!
Side 106 - ... tawny front : his captain's heart, Which in the scuffles of great fights hath burst The buckles on his breast, reneges all temper', And is become the bellows, and the fan, To cool a gipsy's lust.
Side 22 - ... reveals itself in the balance or reconciliation of opposite or discordant qualities: of sameness, with difference; of the general, with the concrete; the idea, with the image; the individual, with the representative; the sense of novelty and freshness, with old and familiar objects; a more than usual state of emotion, with more than usual order...
Side 127 - Of comfort no man speak: Let'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 : 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 of the barren earth Which serves as paste and cover to our bones.
Side 161 - My words fly up, my thoughts remain below : Words, without thoughts, never to heaven go.

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