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But sighs subside, and tears (even widows') shrink,
Like Arno in the summer, to a shallow.
But still her lips refused to say, farewell: for in that word, that fatal word, howe'er we promise, hope, believe, there breathes despair.
But thy true lovers more admire by far
Thy naked beauties; give me a cigar.
But time strips our illusions of their hue,
And one by one in turn some grand mistake
Casts off its bright skin yearly like a snake.
But who alas! can love and then be wise?
But who would scorn the month of June,
Because December with his breath so hoary,
Must come? Much rather should he court the ray,
To hoard up warmth against a wintry day.
By heaven! it is a splendid sight to see
(For one who hath no friend, no brother there)
Their rival scarfs of mix'd embroidery,
Their various arms that glitter in the air!
What gallant war-hounds rouse them from their lair,
And gnash their fangs, loud yelling for the prey!
All join the chase, but few the triumph share;
The grave shall bear the chiefest prize away,
And havoc scarce for joy can number their array.
By satire kept in awe, shrink from ridicule, though not from law.
By those tresses unconfin'd,
Woo'd by very gentle wind;
By those lids whose jetty fringe
Kiss thy soft cheek's blooming tinge;
By those wild eyes, like the roe,
Ah! hear my vow before I go--
My dearest life, I love thee!
Can I cease to love thee?--no!
Zoe mous s-as ogapo.
Chaste were his steps, each kept within due bound,
And elegance was sprinkled o'er his figure;
Like swift Camilla, he scarce skimm'd the ground.
And rather held in than put forth his vigor.
And then he had an ear for music's sound,
Which might defy a crotchet critic's rigor.
Such classic pas--sans flaws--set off our hero.
He glanced like a personified Bolero.
Circumstance, that unspiritual god and miscreator, makes and helps along our coming evils.
Cleverness and cunning are incompatible.
Clime of the unforgotten brave!
Whose land, from plain to mountain-cave,
Was Freedom's home, or Glory's grave;
Shrine of the mighty! can it be,
That this is all remains of thee?
Constant thought will overflow in words unconsciously.
Could we but keep our spirit to that height,
We might be happy; but the clay will sink
Its thoughts immortal.
Danger levels man and brute, and all are fellows in their need.
Dead! God, how much there is in that little word!
Decayed in thy glory and sunk in thy worth.
Deep in my shut and silent heart.
Deformity is daring;
It is its essence to o'ertake mankind
By heart and soul, and make itself the equal--
Ay, the superior of the rest. There is
A spur in its halt movements, to become
All that the others cannot, in such things
As still are free for both, to compensate
For stepdame Nature's avarice at first.
Demons in act, but gods at least in face.
Despair defies even despotism; there is that in my heart would make its way through hosts with leveled spears.
Despair of all recovery spoils longevity,
And makes men's miseries of alarming brevity.
Does not the law of Heaven say blood for blood?
And he who taints kills more than he who sheds it.
Dreading that climax of all earthly ills,
The inflammation of his weekly bills.
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