This historic book may have numerous typos and missing text. Purchasers can download a free scanned copy of the original book (without typos) from the publisher. Not indexed. Not illustrated. 1879 Excerpt: ...and stood its test, As I have said in--I forget what page; My Muse despises reference, as you have guess'd By this time;--but strike six from seven-and-twenty, And you will find her sum of years in plenty. Lv. At sixteen she came out; presented, vaunted, She put all coronets into commotion: At seventeen, too, the world ...
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This historic book may have numerous typos and missing text. Purchasers can download a free scanned copy of the original book (without typos) from the publisher. Not indexed. Not illustrated. 1879 Excerpt: ...and stood its test, As I have said in--I forget what page; My Muse despises reference, as you have guess'd By this time;--but strike six from seven-and-twenty, And you will find her sum of years in plenty. Lv. At sixteen she came out; presented, vaunted, She put all coronets into commotion: At seventeen, too, the world was still enchanted With the new Venus of their brilliant ocean: At eighteen, though below her feet still panted A hecatomb of suitors with devotion, She had consented to create again That Adam, call'd " the happiest of men." LVI. Since then she had sparkled through three glowing winters, Admired, adored; but also so correct, That she had puzzled all the acutest hinters, Without the apparel of being circumspect: They could not even glean the slightest splinters From off the marble, which had no defect. She had also snatch'd a moment since her marriage To bear a son and heir--and one miscarriage. LVII. Fondly the wheeling fire-flies flew around her, Those little glitterers of the London night; But none of these possess'd a sting to wound her--She was a pitch beyond a coxcomb's flight. Perhaps she wish'd an aspirant profounder; But whatsoe'er she wish'd, she acted right; And whether coldness, pride, or virtue, dignify A woman, so she's good, what does it signify? LVIII. I hate a motive, like a lingering bottle Which with the landlord makes too long a stand, Leaving all claretless the unmoisten'd throttle, Especially with politics on hand; I hate it, as I hate a drove of cattle, Who whirl the dust as simooms whirl the sand; I hate it, as I hate an argument, A laureate's ode, or servile peer's "content." LIX. 'Tis sad to hack into the roots of things, They are so much intertwisted with the earth; So that the branch a goodly ve...
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