The Acharnians, Knights, and Clouds

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H.G. Bohn, 1848 - 420 pages

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Page lxxii - Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, As his corse to the rampart we hurried ; Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot O'er the grave where our hero we buried. We buried him darkly at dead of night, The sods with our bayonets turning ; By the struggling moonbeam's misty light And the lantern dimly burning.
Page xxi - For the lips of a strange woman drop as an honeycomb, and her mouth is smoother than oil: but her end is bitter as wormwood, sharp as a two-edged sword. Her feet go down to death; her steps take hold on hell.
Page 97 - Neither do men put new wine into old bottles : else the bottles break, and the wine runneth out, and the bottles perish : but they put new wine into new bottles, and both are preserved.
Page xxi - That they may keep thee from the strange woman, from the stranger which flattereth with her words.
Page lviii - GOOD people all, with one accord, Lament for Madam Blaize, Who never wanted a good word— From those who spoke her praise. The needy seldom pass'd her door, And always found her kind; She freely lent to all the poor— Who left a pledge behind. She strove the neighbourhood to please With manners wondrous winning; And never follow'd wicked ways— Unless when she was sinning.
Page 28 - Now on whom dost thou trust, that thou rebellest against me ? Now, behold, thou trustest upon the staff of this bruised reed, even upon Egypt, on which if a man lean, it will go into his hand, and pierce it: so is Pharaoh king of Egypt unto all that trust on him.
Page xxvii - From the hard season gaining? Time will run On smoother, till Favonius reinspire The frozen earth, and clothe in fresh attire The lily and rose, that neither sowed nor spun.
Page lxx - Ye high, exalted, virtuous dames, Tied up in godly laces, Before ye gie poor Frailty names, Suppose a change o' cases ; A dear-loved lad, convenience snug, A treacherous inclination — But, let me whisper i' your lug, Ye 're aiblins nae temptation.
Page lviii - Her love was sought, I do aver, By twenty beaux and more; The king himself has followed her, — When she has walked before. "But now her wealth and finery fled, Her hangers-on cut short all; The doctors found, when she was dead, — Her last disorder mortal. "Let us lament, in sorrow sore, For Kent Street well may say, That had she lived a twelvemonth more, — She had not died today.
Page 308 - ... fellow, says, it looks for all the world like a flock of sheep, and foretells plenty : and all the while it is nothing but a shining cloud, by its own mobility, and the activity of a wind cast into a contingent and inartificial shape.

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