The Red Dragon: The National Magazine of Wales, Volum 6

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Giuseppe Mattei, Charles Wilkins (of Merthyr-Tydfil)
Daniel Owen, Howell and Company, 1884
 

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Side 232 - No, faith, not a jot; but to follow him thither with modesty enough, and likelihood to lead it; as thus: Alexander died, Alexander was buried, Alexander returneth...
Side 42 - Morte d'Arthur. — SIR THOMAS MALORY'S BOOK OF KING ARTHUR AND OF HIS NOBLE KNIGHTS OF THE ROUND TABLE. The original Edition of CAXTON, revised for Modern Use. With an Introduction by Sir EDWARD STRACHEY, Bart. pp. xxxvii., 509. ' 'It is with perfect confidence that we recommend this edition of the old romance to every class of readers.
Side 231 - How absolute the knave is ! we must speak by the card, or equivocation will undo us.
Side 286 - Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam, Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home ! A charm from the skies seems to hallow us there, Which, seek through the world, is ne'er met with elsewhere. Home ! home ! sweet home ! There's no place like home.
Side 434 - Canst thou not minister to a mind diseased ; Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow ; Raze out the written troubles of the brain ; And, with some sweet, oblivious antidote, Cleanse the stuffed bosom of that perilous stuff, Which weighs upon the heart ? Doct.
Side 434 - Hell is murky. Fie, my lord, fie ! a soldier, and afeard? What need we fear who knows it, when none can call our power to account? Yet who would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him? Doct. Do you mark that? Lady M. The thane of Fife had a wife; where is she now? What, will these hands ne'er be clean? No more o' that, my lord, no more o' that: you mar all with this starting.
Side 432 - Sleep no more ! Macbeth does murder sleep,' the innocent sleep, Sleep that knits up the ravelled sleave* of care, The death of each day's life, sore labour's bath, Balm of hurt minds, great nature's second course, Chief nourisher in life's feast,— Lady M. What do you mean ? Macb. Still it cried
Side 44 - I find a magic bark ; I leap on board : no helmsman steers : I float till all is dark. A gentle sound, an awful light ! Three angels bear the holy Grail : With folded feet, in stoles of white, On sleeping wings they sail. Ah, blessed vision ! blood of God ! My spirit beats her mortal bars, As down dark tides the glory slides, And star-like mingles with the stars. When on my goodly charger borne Thro* dreaming towns I go, The cock crows ere the Christmas morn, The streets are dumb with snow.
Side 433 - Methought I heard a voice cry "Sleep no more! Macbeth does murder sleep," the innocent sleep, Sleep that knits up the ravell'd sleave of care, The death of each day's life, sore labour's bath, Balm of hurt minds, great nature's second course, Chief nourisher in life's feast, — Lady M.
Side 570 - And they blessed Rebekah, and said unto her... let thy seed possess the gate of those which hate them.

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