Elements of Criticism, 1 tomas

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M. Carey, 1816
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67 psl. - My story being done, She gave me for my pains a world of sighs : She swore, in faith, 'twas strange, 'twas passing strange ; 'Twas pitiful, 'twas wondrous pitiful : She wish'd she had not heard it, yet she wish'd That heaven had made her such a man ; she thank'd me, And bade me, if I had a friend that lov'd her, I should but teach him how to tell my story, And that would woo her.
172 psl. - Why, man, he doth bestride the narrow world, Like a Colossus ; and we petty men Walk under his huge legs, and peep about To find ourselves dishonourable graves.
223 psl. - 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, This 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.
179 psl. - This day is call'd the feast of Crispian : He that outlives this day, and comes safe home, Will stand a tip-toe when this day is named, And rouse him at the name of Crispian.
394 psl. - Like Niobe, all tears, why she, even she — O God ! a beast that wants discourse of reason, Would have mourn'd longer — married with mine uncle, My father's brother, but no more like my father Than I to Hercules...
120 psl. - I'll not shed her blood ; Nor scar that whiter skin of hers than snow, And smooth as monumental alabaster. Yet she must die, else she'll betray more men. Put out the light, and then put out the light.
381 psl. - Me miserable ! which way shall I fly Infinite wrath, and infinite despair? Which way I fly is Hell; myself am Hell; And, in the lowest deep, a lower deep Still threatening to devour me opens wide, To which the Hell I suffer seems a Heaven.
222 psl. - My liege, I did deny no prisoners. But, I remember, when the fight was done, When I was dry with rage, and extreme toil, Breathless and faint, leaning upon my sword, Came there a certain lord, neat, trimly...
222 psl. - But I remember when the fight was done, When I was dry with rage and extreme toil, Breathless and faint, leaning upon my sword, 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.
225 psl. - O ! who can hold a fire in his hand By thinking on the frosty Caucasus? Or cloy the hungry edge of appetite By bare imagination of a feast? Or wallow naked in December snow By thinking on fantastic summer's heat? O no, the apprehension of the good Gives but the greater feeling to the worse : Fell sorrow's tooth doth never rankle more Than when it bites, but lanceth not the sore.

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