Walford's Antiquarian Magazine and Bibliographical Review, Volume 4

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1883
 

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Page 287 - There at the foot of yonder nodding beech, That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high, His listless length at noontide would he stretch, And pore upon the brook that babbles by.
Page 287 - Muse, The place of fame and elegy supply : And many a holy text around she strews, That teach the rustic moralist to die.
Page 287 - Another came; nor yet beside the rill, Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he; "The next with dirges due in sad array Slow through the churchway path we saw him borne. Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay, Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn.
Page 238 - Come, sleep ! O sleep, the certain knot of peace, The baiting-place of wit, the balm of woe, The poor man's wealth, the prisoner's release, Th...
Page 287 - For who to dumb forgetfulness a prey, This pleasing anxious being e'er resigned, Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, Nor cast one longing lingering look behind?
Page 200 - Their seed standeth fast, and their children for their sakes. Their seed shall remain for ever, and their glory shall not be blotted out. Their bodies are buried in peace; but their name liveth for evermore.
Page 156 - Shakespeare, Drayton and Ben Jonson had a merry meeting, and, it seems, drank too hard ; for Shakespeare died of a fever there contracted.
Page 234 - YOU have indeed conducted with great decency my little misfortune: you have taken a paternal care of it, and expressed much more kindness than could have been expressed from so near a relation. But we are all frail ; and I hope to do as much for you another time. Nurse Dodsley has given it a pinch or two in the cradle, that (I doubt) it will bear the marks of as long as it livej.
Page 331 - 11 send your soul to rest ; If you fill it of the small, • Down comes butler, bowl, and all. The bowl is made of a good ash tree, Pray, good Missis, think of me. One for Peter, two for Paul, Three for Him who made us all. Apple or pear, plum or cherry, Anything to make us merry. Off with your kettle, on with your pan, A good red apple, and I'll be gone.
Page 281 - And thou my Soul, which turn'st thy curious eye To view the beams of thine own form divine, Know that thou canst know nothing perfectly While thou art clouded with this flesh of mine.

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