Sophonisba; Agamemnon; Alfred

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A. Millar, 1757
 

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Page 30 - I could, in the most sacred ties, Live out a happy life. But, know that Romans, Their hearts, as well as enemies can conquer ; Then, take her to thy soul ! and with her, take Thy liberty and kingdom. In return, I ask but this — when you behold these eyes, These charms, with transport, be a friend to Rome.
Page 29 - Her lover and belov'd, forgot his chains, His loft dominions, and for her alone Wept out his tender foul ; fudden the heart Of this young, conquering, loving, godlike Roman,.
Page 30 - My friend in glory ! thy awaken'd prince Springs at thy noble tale. It fires my foul, And nerves each thought anew ; apt oft perhaps, Too much, too much, to ftacken into love.
Page 153 - Where never human foot had mark'd the shore, These ruffians left me — Yet believe me, Areas, Such is the rooted love we bear mankind, All ruffians as they were, I never heard A sound so dismal as their parting oars.
Page 77 - And deals her sweets around. The sun too seems, As conscious of my joy, with brighter beams To gild the happy world; and all things smile Like Sophonisba.
Page 24 - The paffions make, when unconfin'd, and mad, They burft unguided by the mental eye, The light of reafon, which in various ways Points them to good, or turns them back from ill ! O fave me from the tumult of the...
Page 24 - The monfter-brood to which this land gives birth, The blazing city, and the gaping earth ; All deaths, all tortures, in one pang combin'd, Are gentle to the tempeft of the mind.
Page 122 - In war or peace, who his great purpose yields, He is the only villain of this world : But he who labours firm and gains his point, Be what it will, which crowns him with success, He is the...
Page 251 - These stoop to Britain's thunder. This new world, Shook to its centre, trembles at her name : And there her sons, with aim exalted, sow The seeds of rising empire, arts, and arms. Britons, proceed, the subject Deep command, Awe with your navies every hostile land. Vain are their threats, their armies all are vain : They rule the balanc'd world, who rule the main.
Page 153 - More desolate at heart, than e'er I felt Before. When Philomela, o'er my head, Began to tune her melancholy strain, As piteous of my woes ; till by degrees, Composing sleep on wounded nature shed A kind but short relief. At early morn, Wak'd by the...

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