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Ænob Alic arms attend bear beauty behold blood Boad bosom brave breast cause comes command Cour death dost thou doubt dreadful Dumnorix Enter Essex ev'ry Exeunt Exit eyes fair faithful fall fame fate fear feel Flam foes fortune gentle give Glost grace grief guard hand Hast hath head hear heart Heav'n Hild hold honour hope hour husband justice lady leave live look lord Madam means meet mind Mont nature never noble o'er once pain passion peace pity poor pow'r pride queen rest rise Roman royal Saint Valori SCENE shame sorrows soul speak spirit stand sure tears tell tender thee thou thought truth turn Venusia virtue wait weak wish woman wounds wretch wrong
Seite 19 - Age sits with decent grace upon his visage, And worthily becomes his silver locks; He wears the marks of many years well spent, Of virtue, truth well tried, and wise experience; A friend like this would suit my sorrows well.
Seite 23 - Does Hastings undertake to plead your cause? But wherefore should he not? Hastings has eyes; The gentle lord has a right tender heart, Melting and easy, yielding to impression, And catching the soft flame from each new beauty.
Seite 66 - Should'ring each other, crowding for a view, Gaping and gazing, taunting and reviling; Some pitying, but those, alas! how few! The most, such iron hearts we are, and such The base barbarity of human kind, With...
Seite 20 - The senseless grave feels not your pious sorrows : Three years and more are past, since I was bid, With many of our common friends, to wait him To his last peaceful mansion. I attended, Sprinkled his clay-cold corse with holy drops, According to our church's rev'rend rite, And saw him laid in hallow'd ground, to rest.
Seite 28 - What proof, alas! have I not given of love? What have I not abandon'd to thy arms? Have I not set at nought my noble birth, A spotless fame and an unblemish'd race, The peace of innocence and pride of virtue?
Seite 55 - Dare not, ev'n for thy soul, to thwart me , further ! None of your arts, your feigning and your foolery ; Your dainty squeamish coying it to me ; Go — to your lord, your paramour, begone ! Lisp in his ear, hang wanton on his neck, And play your monkey gambols o'er to him.
Seite 16 - Till life fled from us like an idle dream, A show of mommery without a meaning. My brother, rest and pardon to his soul, Is gone to his account; for this his minion.