H. Colburn, 1839

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Side 225 - Not poppy, nor mandragora, Nor all the drowsy syrups of the world, Shall ever medicine thee to that sweet sleep Which thou ow'dst yesterday.
Side 123 - O NIGHTINGALE that on yon bloomy spray Warblest at eve, when all the woods are still, Thou with fresh hope the lover's heart dost fill, While the jolly hours lead on propitious May.
Side 296 - Why, well; Never so truly happy, my good Cromwell. I know myself now; and I feel within me A peace above all earthly dignities, A still and quiet conscience.
Side 220 - tis better to be lowly born, And range with humble livers in content, Than to be perk'd up in a glistering grief, And wear a golden sorrow.
Side 374 - Ask the faithful youth, Why the cold urn of her whom long he lov'd So often fills his arms ; so often draws His lonely footsteps at the silent hour, To pay the mournful tribute of his tears ? O ! he will tell thee, that the wealth of worlds Should ne'er seduce his bosom to forego That sacred hour...
Side 366 - Doubt thou the stars are fire, Doubt that the sun doth move, Doubt truth to be a liar, But never doubt I love. "Oh dear Ophelia, I am ill at these numbers, I have not art to reckon my groans; but that I love thee best, О most best, believe it.
Side 298 - As great might have aspired, and me, though mean, Drawn to his part; but other powers as great Fell not, but stand unshaken, from within Or from without, to all temptations armed.
Side 389 - No farther seek his merits to disclose, Or draw his frailties from their dread abode (There they alike in trembling hope repose), The bosom of his Father and his God.
Side 125 - She home return, whose voice's silver sound To cheerful songs can change my cheerless cries. Hence with the nightingale will I take part, That blessed bird, that spends her time of sleep In songs and plaintive pleas, the more t'augment 910 The memory of his misdeed that bred her woe. And you that feel no woe, / Whenas the sound Of these my nightly cries / Ye hear apart, Let break your sounder sleep, / And pity augment. Per. O Colin, Colin! the shepherds' joy, 190 How I admire each turning of thy...
Side 242 - Cloth of frize, be not too bold, Though thou art match'd with cloth of gold.

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