The Lady of Lyons: Or, Love and Pride. A Play in Five Acts, as Performed at the Theatre Royal, Covent Garden

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Harper & Bros., 1838 - 99 ページ

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63 ページ - And sent them to thee — such a tribute, lady, As beauty rarely scorns, even from the meanest. The name — appended by the burning heart That long'd to show its idol what bright things It had created — yea, the enthusiast's name, That should have been thy triumph, was thy scorn! That very hour — when passion...
90 ページ - Love buys not with the ruthless usurer's gold The loathsome prostitution of a hand Without a heart? Love sacrifices all things To bless the thing it loves! He knows not love. Father, his love is hate — his hope revenge!
85 ページ - From air he takes his colours, holds his life, Changes with every wind, grows lean or fat ; Rosy with hope, or green with jealousy, Or pallid with despair, just as the gale Varies from north to south, from heat to cold...
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63 ページ - Despair is free ! I will not tell thee of the throes, the struggles, The anguish, the remorse : no ; let it pass ! And let me come to such most poor atonement Yet in my power. Pauline ! (Approaching her with great emotion, and about to take her hand.) PAULINE.
61 ページ - I' the midst of roses! — Dost thou like the picture? " This is my bridal home, and thou my bridegroom! 0 fool — O dupe — O wretch ! I see it all. The by-word and the jeer of every tongue In Lyons. Hast thou in thy heart one touch Of human kindness? if thou hast, why kill me, And save thy wife from madness. No, it cannot — It cannot be; this is some horrid dream; 1 shall wake soon. [Touching him.] Art flesh ? art man?
21 ページ - I know not, unless it be because the Revolution swept away my father's title of Marquis, — and she will not marry a commoner. Now, as we have no noblemen left in France, — as we are all citizens and equals, she can only hope that, in spite of the war, some English Milord or German Count will risk his life, by coming to Lyons, that this fille du Roturier may condescend to accept him.
44 ページ - We'd guess what star should be our home when love Becomes immortal ; while the perfumed light Stole through the mists of alabaster lamps, And every air was heavy with the sighs Of orange groves and music from sweet lutes, And murmurs of low fountains that gush forth I' the midst of roses ! — Dost thou like the picture ? PAULINE.

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