Bath, a satirical novel

Priekinis viršelis
1818
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166 psl. - It is no marvel — from my very birth My soul was drunk with love, which did pervade And mingle with whate'er I saw on earth ; Of objects all inanimate I made Idols, and out of wild and lonely flowers, And rocks, whereby they grew, a paradise, Where I did lay me down within the shade Of waving trees, and dream'd uncounted hours, Though I was chid for wandering...
148 psl. - To sigh, yet feel no pain, To weep, yet scarce know why ; To sport an hour with Beauty's chain, Then throw it idly by...
1 psl. - Where springs, in scatter'd tufts, the dark-green corn. Towers wood-girt Harden, far above the vale, And clouds of ravens o'er the turrets sail. A hardy race, who never shrunk from war. The Scott, to rival realms a mighty bar, Here fixed his mountain-home; — a wide domain. And rich the soil, had purple heath been grain; But what the niggard ground of wealth denied. From fields more bless'd his fearless arm supplied.
19 psl. - To sport an hour with beauty's chain, Then throw it idly by ; To kneel at many a shrine, Yet lay the heart on none ; To think all other charms divine But those we just have won : — This is love — careless love — Such as kindleth hearts that rove.
161 psl. - Venus, take my votive glass, Since I am not what I was ; What from this day I shall be, Venus, let me never see.
208 psl. - And when a lady's in the case, You know all other things give place. To leave you thus might seem unkind, But see the Goat is just behind.
185 psl. - His life was gentle, and the Elements So mixt in him, that Nature might stand up, And say to all the world; This was a man.
175 psl. - ... wave slow swelling to the shore Gleams on the green like silver ore ; The grove, the cloud, the mountain's brow, Are burning in the crimson glow ; Yet all is silence, — till the gale Shakes its rich pinions from the vale. It is a lovely hour, — though heaven Had ne'er to man his partner given, That thing of beauty, fatal, fair, Bright, fickle— child of flame and air...
44 psl. - Forbear, my lord, to grieve, And know your Rosamond does live. If 'tis joy to wound a lover, How much more to give him ease ? When his passion we discover, Oh how pleasing 'tis to please ! The bliss returns, and we receive Transports greater than we give, KING.
17 psl. - With this scene ended our glimpse of daylight. Sir Walter never, I think, left his room afterwards, and hardly his bed, except for an hour or two in the middle of the day; and after another week he was unable even for this.

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