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Updated: May 3, 2025
And at Diana's Feet! The fittest Altar for my Sacrifice! Turn, turn, from what thou lov'st, and meet my Justice. Cel. Oh, hold, my dearest Brother. Bel. Nay, now I'm ready for the welcome Sword, Since my Celinda's false, and cannot pardon. Cel. Oh, do not die with that profane Opinion. Celinda false! or cannot pardon thee! Dia. Stay, generous Sir, my Pity has forgiven him. Bel. Thou!
Thou lov'st me not; for, brother, if thou didst, Thy tears would wash this cold congealed blood That glues my lips, and will not let me speak. Come quickly, Montague, or I am dead." Sir Wycherly had actually been seized with a fit of apoplexy.
"Ah, we are brave companions, aren't we, Gwil?" he would sometimes ask with a tremble in his voice. "And thou lov'st thine old grandfather with all thine heart, eh?" They were sitting under the elder tree in the farmyard. "Oh, more!" said the boy, "because then we'd be two naughty boys!"
One start, and I die; yet in peace I recline, My bosom can rest on the fealty of thine: Thou lov'st me, my sweet one, and would'st not be free, From a yoke that has never borne rudely on thee. Ah, pleasant the empire of those to confess, Whose wrath is a whisper, their rule a caress.
That lov'st the harping of the Gael, Through fair and fertile regions borne, Where never yet grew grass or corn. But English poetry will never succeed under the influence of a Highland Helicon. O vous, qui buvez, a tasse pleine, A cette heureuse fontaine, Ou on ne voit, sur le rivage, Que quelques vilains troupeaux, Suivis de nymphes de village, Qui les escortent sans sabots'
If thou lov'st me do not tell me, Joy would make me rave, And the bells of gladness knell me To the silent grave. If thou lovest not thy lover, Neither veil thine eyes, Nor to his poor heart discover What behind them lies. Be not cruel, be not tender; Grant me twilight hope; Neither would I die of splendor, Nor in darkness mope.
"Thou, a De Montfort, the daughter of my sister; who have seen this murderer's accursed mark upon the foreheads of thy kin; thou have seen him flaunt his defiance in the King's, thy uncle's, face, and bend his whole life to preying upon thy people; thou lov'st this monster?" "I love him, My Lord King." "Thou lov'st him, Bertrade?" asked Philip of France in a low tone, pressing nearer to the girl.
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