Genre - Poetry. You are on the page - 9
fall and possible demise-- for where was he? what was he? Shading her eyes, she looked along the road for Captain Barfoot--yes, there he was, punctual as ever; the attentions of the Captain--all ripened Betty Flanders, enlarged her figure, tinged her face with jollity, and flooded her eyes for no reason that any one could see perhaps three times a day.True, there's no harm in crying for one's husband, and the tombstone, though plain, was a solid piece of work, and on summer's days when the
ets with sweets war not, joy delights in joy: Why lov'st thou that which thou receiv'st not gladly, Or else receiv'st with pleasure thine annoy? If the true concord of well-tuned sounds, By unions married, do offend thine ear, They do but sweetly chide thee, who confounds In singleness the parts that thou shouldst bear. Mark how one string, sweet husband to another, Strikes each in each by mutual ordering; Resembling sire and child and happy mother, Who, all in one, one pleasing note do sing:
n ill-greased pulley, and ended by degenerating into a terrible spasm of coughing. The fire basket now clearly lit up his large head, with its scanty white hair and flat, livid face, spotted with bluish patches. He was short, with an enormous neck, projecting calves and heels, and long arms, with massive hands falling to his knees. For the rest, like his horse, which stood immovable, without suffering from the wind, he seemed to be made of stone; he had no appearance of feeling either the cold
Footsteps shuffled on the stair. Under the firelight, under the brush, her hair Spread out in fiery points Glowed into words, then would be savagely still. 110"My nerves are bad to-night. Yes, bad. Stay with me. "Speak to me. Why do you never speak. Speak. "What are you thinking of? What thinking? What? "I never know what you are thinking. Think." I think we are in rats' alley Where the dead men lost their bones. "What is that noise?" The wind under the door.
EOPATRA. Hear the ambassadors. ANTONY. Fie, wrangling queen! Whom everything becomes,--to chide, to laugh, To weep; whose every passion fully strives To make itself in thee fair and admir'd! No messenger; but thine, and all alone To-night we'll wander through the streets and note The qualities of people. Come, my queen; Last night you did desire it:--speak not to us. [Exeunt ANTONY and CLEOPATRA, with their Train.] DEMETRIUS. Is Caesar with Antonius priz'd so slight? PHILO. Sir, sometimes when
ginal,convinced that every departure from him would be punished with theforfeiture of some grace or beauty for which I could substitute noequivalent. The epithets that would consent to an English form I havepreserved as epithets; others that would not, I have melted into thecontext. There are none, I believe, which I have not translated in oneway or other, though the reader will not find them repeated so oftenas most of them are in HOMER, for a reason that need not be mentioned.Few persons of