Berenice: A Novel

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Phillips, Sampson, 1856 - 332 pages
 

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Page 199 - Oh! but to breathe the breath Of the cowslip and primrose sweet With the sky above my head, And the grass beneath my feet, For only one short hour To feel as I used to feel, Before I knew the woes of want And the walk that costs a meal!
Page 67 - Claudio; and I quake, Lest thou a feverous life shouldst entertain, And six or seven winters more respect Than a perpetual honour. Dar'st thou die ? The sense of death is most in apprehension ; And the poor beetle, that we tread upon, In corporal sufferance finds a pang as great As when a giant dies.
Page 78 - He will not only pardon, but pardon abundantly: for his thoughts are not as our thoughts, nor his ways as our ways.
Page 9 - She'd come again, and with a greedy ear Devour up my discourse : which I observing, Took once a pliant hour; and found good means To draw from her a prayer of earnest heart That I would all my pilgrimage dilate, Whereof by parcels...
Page 171 - Has its stern duties. Wherefore have I none ? I will throw off this dead and useless past, As a strong runner, straining for his life, Unclasps a mantle to the hungry winds. A mighty purpose rises large and slow From out the fluctuations of my soul, As, ghost-like, from the dim and tumbling sea Starts the completed moon.
Page 198 - Work, work, work! From weary chime to chime ; Work, work, work, As prisoners work for crime : Band and gusset and seam, Seam and gusset and band, Till the heart is sick, and the brain benumbed, As well as the weary hand.
Page 50 - O! mickle is the powerful grace that lies In herbs, plants, stones, and their true qualities: For nought so vile that on the earth doth live, But to the earth some special good doth give...
Page 281 - Day ; when, after years haggard with anxiety, the mother welcomed back the remnant of her children who had escaped " the pestilence that walketh in darkness, the destruction that wasteth at noonday.
Page 280 - Come to the bridal chamber, Death! Come to the mother's, when she feels For the first time her first-born's breath; Come when the blessed seals That close the pestilence are broke, And crowded cities wail its stroke...
Page 294 - He that loveth father or mother more than me is not worthy of me: and he that loveth son or daughter more than me is not worthy of me.

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