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Trang 187 - Found thee a way, out of his wreck, to rise in ; A sure and safe one, though thy master miss'd it. Mark but my fall, and that which ruin'd me. Cromwell, I charge thee, fling away ambition ; By that sin fell the angels ; how can man, then— (Tho' th' image of his Maker) hope to win
Trang 186 - Such the bard's prophetic words, Of his sweet but awful lyre. She, with all a monarch's pride, Felt them in her bosom glow ; Rush'd to battle, fought, and died ; Dying hurl'd them at the foe : Ruffians, pitiless as proud, Heaven awards the vengeance due ; Empire is on us bestow'd Shame and ruin wait for you.
Trang 184 - The bell strikes one. We take no note of time But from its loss : to give it then a tongue Is wise in man. As if an angel spoke, I feel the solemn sound. If I heard aright, It is the knell of my departed hours.
Trang 187 - thine honest truth, to play the woman. Let's dry our eyes : and thus far hear me, Cromwell; And,—when I am forgotten, as I shall be, And sleep in dull cold marble, where no mention Of me must more be heard,—say then, I taught thee
Trang 187 - CARDINAL WOLSEY'S SPEECH TO CROMWELL. Cromwell, I did not think to shed a tear In all my miseries; but thou hast forc'd me, Out of thine honest truth, to play the woman. Let's dry our eyes : and thus far hear me, Cromwell; And,—when I am forgotten, as I shall be, And sleep in dull cold marble, where no mention Of me
Trang 182 - How blithely might the bugle-horn Chide, on the lake, the lingering morn ! How sweet, at eve, the lover's lute Chime, when the groves were still and mute! And, when the midnight moon should lave Her forehead in the silver wave, How solemn on the ear would come The holy matins
Trang 185 - queen, Bleeding from the Roman rods, Sought, with an indignant mien, Counsel of her country's gods, Every burning word he spoke Full of rage, and full of grief. Sage beneath a spreading oak, Sat the Druid, hoary chief;
Trang 189 - tis the twanging horn o'er yonder bridge, That with its wearisome but needful length Bestrides the wintry flood, in which the moon Sees her unwrinkled face reflected bright;— He comes, the herald of a noisy world, With
Trang 169 - very true, indeed, Sir Peter; and, after having married you, I should never pretend to taste again, I allow. But now, Sir Peter, since we have finished our daily jangle, I presume I may go to my engagement at Lady Sneerwell's. Sir P.—Ay, there's another precious circumstance —a charming set of
Trang 185 - O what a miracle to man is man ! Triumphantly distress'd ! what joy ! what dread ! Alternately transported and alarm'd ; What can preserve my life ! or what destroy ! An angel's arm can't snatch me from the grave ; Legions of angels can't confine me there.