Preciosa: A TaleJ. Chapman, 1852 - 326 páginas |
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Palavras e frases frequentes
acquaintance Admiral affectionate Ainslie answered Arthur Cary aunt's brother calm CHAPTER Charles Lamb CHARLES WICKSTEED child childhood cloth cried dear aunt dear Catherine dear Edward dear Lucy dear sister dearest Edward felt EDWARD TO CATHERINE Emily Emily's Eustace eyes fancy feel felt FRANCIS WILLIAM NEWMAN friends Gate's End girl give grace hand happy HARRIET MARTINEAU hear heart hope JAMES MARTINEAU JOHANN GOTTLIEB FICHTE JOHN CHAPMAN Joseph Blanco White knew lady laugh Lenton letter Llanberis look Lucy's mind Miss Ledyard morning natural ness never once Original price papa paper cover passed perhaps pleasure Post 8vo pray Preciosa present racter recognise recollections remember seemed sight silence smile sorrow sorry soul storm of passion sweet tears thank thee THEODORE PARKER thing thou tion turned uncon whilst wish words young
Passagens conhecidas
Página 257 - Alas that all we loved of him should be, But for our grief, as if it had not been, And grief itself be mortal ! Woe is me ! Whence are we, and why are we ? of what scene The actors or spectators ? Great and mean Meet massed in death, who lends what life must borrow.
Página 8 - Too subtle-potent, tun'd too sharp in sweetness, For the capacity of my ruder powers : I fear it much ; and I do fear besides, That I shall lose distinction in my joys ; As doth a battle, when they charge on heaps The enemy flying.
Página 173 - tis not to come ; if it be not to come, it will be now ; if it be not now, yet it will come ; the readiness is all ; since no man has aught of what he leaves, what is't to leave betimes?
Página 238 - Count, take of me my daughter, and with her my fortunes : his Grace hath made the match, and all grace say Amen to it. Beat. Speak, count, 'tis your cue. Claud. Silence is the perfectest herald of joy : I were but little happy, if I could say how much.
Página 7 - Clanging fights, and flaming towns, and sinking ships and praying hands. But they smile, they find a music centred in a doleful song Steaming up, a lamentation and an ancient tale of wrong, Like a tale of little meaning tho...
Página 81 - My soul is an enchanted boat, Which, like a sleeping swan, doth float Upon the silver waves of thy sweet singing ; And thine doth like an angel sit Beside the helm conducting it, Whilst all the winds with melody are ringing. It seems to float ever, for ever, Upon that many-winding river, Between mountains, woods, abysses, A paradise of wildernesses ! Till, like one in slumber bound Borne to the ocean, I float down, around, Into a sea profound of ever-spreading sound.