Classical English Reader: Selections from Standard Authors. With Explanatory and Critical Foot-notes

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Ginn, Heath, & Company, 1882 - 452 pages
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Page 208 - its mansion call the fleeting breath? Can Honour's voice provoke the silent dust, Or Flattery soothe the dull, cold ear of Death ? 12 Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire; Hands that the rod of empire might have sway'd, Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre.
Page 437 - Citizens. Peace, ho ! let us hear him. Ant. Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears : I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him. The evil that men do lives after them; The good is oft interred with their bones : So let it be with Ceesar. The noble Brutus Hath told you
Page 13 - even that art Which you say adds to Nature is an art That Nature makes. You see, sweet maid, we marry A gentler scion to the wildest stock, And make conceive a bark of baser kind By bud of nobler race : this is an art Which does mend Nature, change it rather; but The art itself is
Page 370 - And so he plays his part : The sixth age shifts Into the lean and slipper'd pantaloon, 9 With spectacles on nose and pouch on side; His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide For his shrunk shank; and his big manly voice, Turning again toward childish treble, pipes And whistles in his
Page 210 - wreathes its old fantastic roots so high, His listless length at noontide would he stretch, And pore upon the brook that babbles by. 27 Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, Muttering his wayward fancies, he would rove, Now drooping, woeful-wan, like one forlorn, Or crazed with care, or cross'd in hopeless love.
Page 270 - toll'd the hour for retiring; And we heard the distant and random gun That the foe was sullenly firing. 8 Slowly and sadly we laid him down, From the field of his fame fresh and gory; We carved not a line, we raised not a stone, But we left him alone with his glory.
Page 264 - 4 Stone walls do not a prison make, Nor iron bars a cage ; Minds innocent and quiet take That for an hermitage : If I have freedom in my love, And in my soul am free, Angels alone, that soar above, Enjoy such liberty. RICHARD LOVELACE
Page 209 - 20 Yet e'en these bones from insult to protect, Some frail memorial still erected nigh, With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck'd, Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. 21 Their names, their years, spelt by th' unletter'd Muse, The place of fame and elegy supply
Page 163 - I did consent; And often did beguile her of her tears, When I did speak of some distressful stroke That my youth suffer'd. My story being done, She gave me for my pains a world of sighs : She swore,' In faith 't was strange, 't was passing strange ; 'T was pitiful, 't
Page 283 - But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet Wherewith the seasonable month endows The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild; White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine; Fast-fading violets cover'd up in leaves ; And mid-May's eldest child, The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine, The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves. 3

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