Cæsar Borgia, by the author of 'Whitefriars'.

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1846
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241 psl. - Than wishest should be undone.' Hie thee hither, That I may pour my spirits in thine ear ; And chastise with the valour of my tongue All that impedes thee from the golden round, Which fate and metaphysical aid doth seem To have thee crown'd withal.
2 psl. - KNOW ye the land where the cypress and myrtle Are emblems of deeds that are done in their clime? Where the rage of the vulture, the love of the turtle, Now melt into sorrow, now madden to crime...
165 psl. - I smile, And cry, Content, to that which grieves my heart ; And wet my cheeks with artificial tears, And frame my face to all occasions.
15 psl. - For herein may be seen noble chivalry, courtesy, humanity, friendliness, hardiness, love, friendship, cowardice, murder, hate, virtue, and sin. Do after the good and leave the evil, and it shall bring you to good fame and renown.
28 psl. - And he, as one, might midst the many stand Unheeded, searching through the crowd to find Fit speculation! such as in strange land He found in wonder-works of God and nature's hand.
192 psl. - By aught than Romans Rome should thus be laid ? She who was named Eternal, and arrayed Her warriors but to conquer — she who veiled Earth with her haughty shadow, and displayed, Until the o'er-canopied horizon failed, Her rushing wings — Oh ! she who was Almighty hailed ! LXXXV.
206 psl. - Yet must I think less wildly :— I have thought Too long and darkly, till my brain became, In its own eddy boiling and o'erwrought, . A whirling gulf of phantasy and flame : And thus, untaught in youth my heart to tame, My springs of life were poison'd.
157 psl. - tis true. Look here, lago ; All my fond love thus do I blow to heaven : 'Tis gone. Arise, black vengeance, from thy hollow cell ! Yield up, O love, thy crown and hearted throne To tyrannous hate ! Swell, bosom, with thy fraught, For 'tis of aspics
249 psl. - O, how this spring of love resembleth The uncertain glory of an April day ; Which now shows all the beauty of the sun, And by and by a cloud takes all away ! Re-enter PANTHINO.
346 psl. - tis in my custody. Oth. Ha! lago. O, beware, my lord, of jealousy ; It is the green-eyed monster, which doth mock The meat it feeds on : that cuckold lives in bliss Who, certain of his fate, loves not his wronger ; But, O, what damned minutes tells he o'er Who dotes, yet doubts, suspects, yet strongly loves ! Oth.

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