THANKS, Sir, but, should it please the reverend Court,
I feel I can stand somehow, half sit down
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YOU ARE the Cardinal Acciaiuoli, and you,
Abate Panciatichi—two good Tuscan names:
2441 lines
HERE were the end, had anything an end:
Thus, lit and launched, up and up roared and soared
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ANOTHER DAY that finds her living yet,
Little Pompilia, with the patient brow
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ANSWER you, Sirs? Do I understand aright?
Have patience! In this sudden smoke from hell,—
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HAD I God’s leave, how I would alter things!
If I might read instead of print my speech,—
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AH, my Giacinto, he’s no ruddy rogue,
Is not Cinone? What, to-day we’re eight?
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LIKE to Ahasuerus, that shrewd prince,
I will begin,—as is, these seven years now,
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[Greek: Chairete, nikomen]
First I salute this soil of the blessed, river and rock!
139 lines
HOW very hard it is to be
A Christian! Hard for you and me,
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Here's my case. Of old I used to love him.
This same unseen friend, before I knew:
58 lines
DO you see this Ring?
’Tis Rome-work, made to match
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On the sea and at the Hogue, sixteen hundred ninety two,
Did the English fight the French,--woe to France!
150 lines
Faster and more fast,
O'er night's brim, day boils at last:
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WHAT, you, Sir, come too? (Just the man I’d meet.)
Be ruled by me and have a care o’the crowd:
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I AM just seventeen years and five months old,
And, if I lived one day more, three full weeks;
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TRUE, Excellency—as his Highness says,
Though she’s not dead yet, she’s as good as stretched
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(_Epilogue to "The Two Poets of Croisic."_)
What a pretty tale you told me
126 lines
OUT of the little chapel I burst
Into the fresh night air again.
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All I can say is--I saw it!
The room was as bare as your hand.
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"We shall soon lose a celebrated building."
--_Paris Newspape
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O the old wall here! How I could pass
Life in a long midsummer day,
28 lines
Sing me a hero! Quench my thirst
Of soul, ye bards!
53 lines
If one could have that little head of hers
Painted upon a background of pure gold,
21 lines
(_Prologue to "The Two Poets of Croisic."_)
Such a starved bank of moss
15 lines
I chanced upon a new book yesterday;
I opened it, and, where my finger lay
12 lines
Vanity, saith the preacher, vanity!
Draw round my bed: is Anselm keeping back?
125 lines
Verse-making was least of my virtues: I viewed with despair
Wealth that never yet was but might be--all that verse-making were
10 lines
There's a palace in Florence, the world knows well,
And a statue watches it from the square,
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