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Updated: May 25, 2025
and in his "Comus" tells the story with a slight variation, thus: "There is a gentle nymph not far from hence, That with moist curb sways the smooth Severn stream; Sabrina is her name, a virgin pure: Whilom she was the daughter of Locrine, That had the sceptre from his father, Brute, She, guiltless damsel, flying the mad pursuit Of her enraged step-dame, Guendolen, Commended her fair innocence to the flood, That stayed her night with his cross-flowing course The water-nymphs that in the bottom played, Held up their pearled wrists and took her in, Bearing her straight to aged Nereus' hall, Who, piteous of her woes, reared her lank head, And gave her to his daughters to imbathe In nectared lavers strewed with asphodel, And through the porch and inlet of each sense Dropped in ambrosial oils till she revived, And underwent a quick, immortal change, Made goddess of the river," etc.
They spoke softly, both of them, before the morning hush, as they swung out into the open water between the towers of San Georgio fairily dim, and the pillars of the saints; the city floated in a mist of blueness, the dome of the Saluti faintly pearled. "Dove, Signore?" The gondolier feathered his oar.
He was equally at home in the clubs of London and the Continent, the Grand Hotel at Yokohama, and the selector's shanties in the Never-Never country. He had shot big game in Siam, pearled in the Paumotus, visited Tolstoy, seen the Passion Play, and crossed the Andes on mule-back; while he was a living directory of the fever holes of West Africa.
and in his "Comus" tells the story with a slight variation, thus: "There is a gentle nymph not far from hence, That with moist curb sways the smooth Severn stream; Sabrina is her name, a virgin pure: Whilom she was the daughter of Locrine, That had the sceptre from his father, Brute, She, guiltless damsel, flying the mad pursuit Of her enraged step-dame, Guendolen, Commended her fair innocence to the flood, That stayed her night with his cross-flowing course The water-nymphs that in the bottom played, Held up their pearled wrists and took her in, Bearing her straight to aged Nereus' hall, Who, piteous of her woes, reared her lank head, And gave her to his daughters to imbathe In nectared lavers strewed with asphodel, And through the porch and inlet of each sense Dropped in ambrosial oils till she revived, And underwent a quick, immortal change, Made goddess of the river," etc.
"Rank," said Lady Louisa; and she pulled a cap from her pocket, put it on her head, drew it close round her face, which she threw into age and wrinkles with marvelous effect, and looked at the doctor, shaking her head like the pearled old woman. "Didn't I give myself a high character?" she said, laughing. "It was the truth," the doctor said "nothing but the truth."
'Can a poor cockney artist venture himself along this timber without falling in? Lancelot turned. 'Come out to me, and if you stumble, the naiads will rise out of their depths, and "hold up their pearled wrists" to save their favourite. The artist walked timidly out along the beams, and sat down beside Lancelot, who shook him warmly by the hand.
Those robes which he had seen both silver gray and dark blue, now faded, pearled, thinned, until each of the three still gliding before him were opalescent columns without definite form. Ashe's grasp fell on Ross's arm once more, and his whisper reached the younger man thinly. "They are mistresses of illusion. Be prepared not to believe all that you see." Mistresses Ross caught that first.
Your beautiful fruit, enough to convert the direst sceptic to Grahamism, together with the pearled wheat, arrived safely, although a few days too late to be in perfectly good order. We distributed them to all and singular, men, women, and children, who discussed them with great interest, I assure you; many, no doubt, with silent wishes that no good or beautiful thing might ever be wanting to you.
As cries of savage rejoicing mingled with the uproar, Randalin found herself dragged up, whether she would or no, until she stood beside her companion, gazing over the heads of the shouting throng. Yes, it was Edmund's crown. Again, a picture of the English camp-fire rose before her, and she shivered as she recognized the graceful pearled points she had last seen upon the Ironside's stately head.
Christine that day wore a large cloak of grey material which enveloped her from head to foot. Her little velvet hat was dark, and the fog outside had pearled her black lace veil. But he thought her looking very cheerful, with the first slight shiver of winter upon her. She at once began to make excuses for having so long delayed her return.
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