The Companion, by L. Hunt

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Page 92 - WHY so pale and wan, fond lover? Prithee, why so pale? Will, when looking well can't move her, Looking ill prevail? Prithee, why so pale? Why so dull and mute, young sinner?
Page 104 - Out upon it, I have loved Three whole days together! And am like to love three more, If it prove fair weather. Time shall moult away his wings Ere he shall discover In the whole wide world again Such a constant lover.
Page 126 - Wharton, the scorn and wonder of our days, Whose ruling passion was the lust of praise ; Born with whate'er could win it from the wise, 'Women and fools must like him, or he dies : Though wondering senates hung on all he spoke, The club must hail him master of the joke.
Page 413 - For either He never shall find out fit mate, but such As some misfortune brings him, or mistake ; Or whom he wishes most shall seldom gain, Through her perverseness, but shall see her...
Page 285 - Seasons" does not contain a single new image of external nature; and scarcely presents a familiar one from which it can be .inferred that the eye of the Poet had been steadily fixed upon his object, much less that his feelings had urged him to work upon it in the spirit of genuine imagination.
Page 415 - Yet more, the Depths have more! — What wealth untold Far down, and shining through their stillness lies! Thou hast the starry gems, the burning gold, Won from ten thousand royal Argosies. — Sweep o'er thy spoils, thou wild and wrathful Main!
Page 396 - Jennie, for their sakes, O, marry me! My heart it said nay; I look'd for Jamie back; But the wind it blew high, and the ship it was a wrack; His ship it was a wrack — why didna Jamie dee? Or why do I live to cry, Wae's me?
Page 90 - Tis now, since I sat down before That foolish fort, a heart, (Time strangely spent) a year and more, And still I did my part: Made my approaches, from her hand Unto her lip did rise, And did already understand The language of her eyes...
Page 379 - Anemouies, that spangled every grove, The primrose wan, and hare-bell mildly blue. No more shall violets linger in the dell, Or purple orchis variegate the plain. Till Spring again shall call forth every bell, And dress with humid hands her wreaths again. — Ah ! poor humanity ! so frail, so fair, Are the fond visions of thy early day, Till tyrant passion and corrosive care Bid all thy fairy colours fade away ! Another May new buds and flowers shall bring; Ah! why has happiness — no second Spring?
Page 180 - Wm would sometimes when he was pleasant over a glasse of wine with his most intimate friends eg Sam: Butler (author of Hudibras) &c. say, that it seemed to him that he writt with the very spirit that Shakespeare, and was seemed contented enough to be thought his Son...

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