The British Drama: pt. 1-2. Tragedies

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William Miller, printed by James Ballantyne, 1804

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Page 13 - Do my face (If thou had'st ever feeling of a sorrow) Thus, thus, Antiphila : strive to make me look Like Sorrow's monument ; and the trees about me, Let them be dry and leafless ; let the rocks Groan with continual surges ; and behind me, Make all a desolation.
Page 198 - O'er fourscore thousand men, of whom each one Is braver than himself ? Vent. You conquered for him ; Philippi knows it : there you shared with him That empire, which your sword made all your own. Ant. Fool that I was ! upon my eagle's wings I bore this wren till I was tired with soaring, And now he mounts above me.
Page 279 - And terror on my aching sight; the tombs And monumental caves of death look cold, And shoot a dullness to my trembling heart. Give me thy hand, and let me hear thy voice; Nay, quickly speak to me, and let me hear Thy voice — my own affrights me with its echoes.
Page 248 - Redeemed her life with half the loss of mine; Like a rich conquest in one hand I bore her, And with the other...
Page 56 - and dressed myself In habit of a boy; and, for I knew My birth no match for you, I was past hope Of having you; and, understanding well That when I made discovery of my sex I...
Page 347 - Marcia tow'rs above her sex : True, she is fair, (oh how divinely fair !) But still the lovely maid improves her charms With inward greatness, unaffected wisdom, And sanctity of manners.
Page 203 - Was not thy fury quite disarmed with wonder? Didst thou not shrink behind me from those eyes And whisper in my ear — Oh, tell her not That I accused her with my brother's death ? DOLA.
Page 195 - They said they would not fight for Cleopatra. Why should they fight indeed, to make her conquer, And make you more a slave ? to gain you kingdoms, Which, for a kiss, at your next midnight feast, You'll sell to her ? Then she new-names her jewels, And calls this diamond such or such a tax ; Each pendant in her ear shall be a province.
Page 347 - Tis not a set of features, or complexion, The tincture of a skin, that I admire: Beauty soon grows familiar to the lover, Fades in his eye, and palls upon the sense.
Page 279 - Looking tranquillity! It strikes an awe And terror on my aching sight; the tombs And monumental caves of death look cold. And shoot a dullness to my trembling heart.

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