The Last Days of a Bachelor: An Autobiography, Volume 1 ;Volume 106

T. C. Newby, 1862

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Page 101 - Vice is a monster of so frightful mien, As, to be hated, needs but to be seen; Yet seen too oft, familiar with her face, We first endure, then pity, then embrace.
Page 257 - A second principle of life, which might Have dawn'da fair and sinless child of sin ; But closed its little being without light...
Page 44 - twas but the wind, Or the car rattling o'er the stony street; On with the dance! let joy be unconfined; No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet To chase the glowing Hours with flying feet.— But hark!
Page 247 - When lovely woman stoops to folly, And finds too late that men betray, What charm can soothe her melancholy, What art can wash her guilt away ? The only art her guilt to cover, To hide her shame from every eye, ' To give repentance to her lover, And wring his bosom — is to die.
Page 264 - A countenance in which did meet Sweet records, promises as sweet; A creature not too bright or good For human nature's daily food: For transient sorrows, simple wiles, Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles.
Page 135 - The time would e'er be o'er, And I on thee should look my last, And thou shouldst smile no more! And still upon that face I look, And think 'twill smile again ; And still the thought I will not brook, That I must look in vain ! But when I speak— thou dost not...
Page 149 - I have no choice ; there is no form on earth Hideous or beautiful to me. Let him, Who is most powerful of ye, take such aspect As unto him may seem most fitting — Come ! Seventh Spirit. (Appearing in the shape of a beautiful female figure.) Behold ! Man. Oh God ! if it be thus, and thou Art not a madness and a mockery, I yet might be most happy.
Page 98 - Oh, talk not to me of a name great in story ; The days of our youth are the days of our glory ; And the myrtle and ivy of sweet two-and-twenty Are worth all your laurels, though ever so plenty.
Page 5 - Oneyda chief His descant wildly thus begun : " But that I may not stain with grief The death-song of my father's son, Or bow this head in woe ! For by my wrongs, and by my wrath ! To-morrow Areouski's breath, (That fires yon...

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