The Comedies of Aristophanes, Tom 1

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Baily, 1837 - 420
 

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Strona 233 - Take us the foxes, the little foxes, that spoil the vines: for our vines have tender grapes.
Strona lxxii - Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, As his corse to the rampart we hurried ; Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot O'er the grave where our hero we buried. We buried him darkly at dead of night, The sods with our bayonets turning ; By the struggling moonbeam's misty light And the lantern dimly burning.
Strona xxi - For the lips of a strange woman drop as an honeycomb, and her mouth is smoother than oil: but her end is bitter as wormwood, sharp as a two-edged sword. Her feet go down to death; her steps take hold on hell.
Strona xxvii - ... mire, Where shall we sometimes meet, and by the fire Help waste a sullen day, what may be won From the hard season gaining? Time will run On smoother, till Favonius reinspire The frozen earth, and clothe in fresh attire The lily and rose, that neither sowed nor spun.
Strona 97 - Neither do men put new wine into old bottles : else the bottles break, and the wine runneth out, and the bottles perish : but they put new wine into new bottles, and both are preserved.
Strona xxi - That they may keep thee from the strange woman, from the stranger which flattereth with her words.
Strona lviii - GOOD people all, with one accord, Lament for Madam Blaize, Who never wanted a good word— From those who spoke her praise. The needy seldom pass'd her door, And always found her kind; She freely lent to all the poor— Who left a pledge behind. She strove the neighbourhood to please With manners wondrous winning; And never follow'd wicked ways— Unless when she was sinning.
Strona lxx - Ye high, exalted, virtuous dames, Tied up in godly laces, Before ye gi'e poor Frailty names, Suppose a change o' cases ; A dear-loved lad, convenience snug, A treacherous inclination — But, let me whisper i' your lug, Ye're aiblins nae temptation.
Strona lxv - Paulo Purgauti and his Wife." JOHNSON : " Sir, there is nothing there, but that his wife wanted to be kissed, when poor Paulo was out of pocket. No, Sir, Prior is a lady's book. No lady is ashamed to have it standing in her library.
Strona lix - When she has walk'd before. But now, her wealth and finery fled, Her hangers-on cut short all ; The doctors found, when she was dead — Her last disorder mortal. Let us lament, in sorrow sore, For Kent-street well may say, That had she lived a twelvemonth more — She had not died to-day.

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