Thomas Fitz-Gerald, the lord of Offaley


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Seite 241 - Where many a time he triumphed is forgot. Near yonder thorn, that lifts its head on high, Where once the sign-post caught the passing eye, Low lies that house where nut-brown draughts inspired, Where grey-beard mirth and smiling toil retired, Where village statesmen talked with looks profound, And news much older than their ale went round.
Seite 37 - Whose fault ? Whose but his own ? Ingrate, he had of me All he could have ; I made him just and right, Sufficient to have stood, though free to fall.
Seite 68 - Now all our neighbours' chimneys smoke, And Christmas blocks are burning ; Their ovens they with baked meats choke, And all their spits are turning. Without the door let sorrow lie, And if for cold it hap to die, We'll bury 't in a Christmas pie, And evermore be merry.
Seite 129 - I'll have Italian masks by night, Sweet speeches, comedies, and pleasing shows; And in the day, when he shall walk abroad, Like sylvan nymphs my pages shall be clad; My men, like satyrs grazing on the lawns, Shall with their goat-feet dance an antic hay...
Seite 123 - Are you a prophet? He replied: I am neither a prophet nor the son of a prophet, but I learnt this from experience.
Seite 117 - However injuriously we be handled, and forced to defend ourselves in arms, when neither our service, nor our good meaning towards our prince's crown availeth, yet say not hereafter, but in this open hostility which we profess here, and proclaim, we have showed ourselves no villains nor churls, but warriors and gentlemen.
Seite 190 - A baleful smile upon their baffled guest. Heard ye the din of battle bray, Lance to lance and horse to horse? Long years of havoc urge their destined course, And through the kindred squadrons mow their way. Ye towers of Julius, London's lasting shame, With many a foul and midnight murder fed, Revere his consort's faith, his father's fame, And spare the meek usurper's holy head!
Seite 242 - there is a hole or labyrinth reaching two large miles under the earth, in old times frequented by a notorious thief called Scaldbrother, and therein he would hide all the bag and baggage that he could pilfer.
Seite 212 - And forage in the fields of light and love. Sweet hope! Kind cheat! Fair fallacy! By thee We are not Where nor What we be, But What and Where we would be. Thus art thou Our absent Presence and our future Now.

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