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Updated: May 7, 2025
Thou wavered'st, thought'st me lost; but far too noble To doubt thy friend's integrity, thy soul Clothed his defection with a robe of honor, Nor judged him faithless till it found a motive To screen and justify his breach of faith. Forsaken by thy only friend 'twas then Thou sought'st the arms of Princess Eboli A demon's arms! 'Twas she betrayed thee, Carlos!
Ye burthened limbs, arise from momentary Slumbers! Shake your chains! Murmur not, but rise! And ye! Watch-dogs of Power! let loose your rage: Fear not, for I am helpless, unprotected. And yet, not so The noble mind, within Itself, resources finds innumerable. Thou, Oh God, thought'st good me t' imprison thus: Thou, Oh God, in Thy good time, wilt me deliver. Wake me then, nor fear!
"Ay, nurse," quoth she, "thou thought'st me safe i' th' Land o' Nod, but one hath ears to hear there as elsewhere." Then she reaches out one hand and plays with Marian's ruff. "Go to, nurse," says she. "Dost thou not see I am even i' th' same case with thyself? I too would gossip a little. Come, word it word it!"
"But knowest thou not besides," said the Templar, "that it seems, if this new purpose of conquest shall be abandoned and pass away, and each mighty prince shall again be left to such guidance as his own scanty brain can supply, Richard may yet probably become King of Jerusalem by compact, and establish those terms of treaty with the Soldan which thou thyself thought'st him so likely to spurn at?"
Noll will hardly dare it; his name Protector gives as much power, and 'tis as a fencing-master's guard, ever at hand to turn aside the sneers against his ambition. Thought'st thou of the pearls for my Lord Fauconberg's rich jeweller?" "Ay, master, they are safe; those I will myself deliver; though, from what the journals say, his Lordship has small need of new trimming.
"Why, thee thought'st Hetty war a ghost, didstna?" said Mr. Poyser to his wife, who now came back and took her seat again. "Thee look'dst as scared as scared." "It little sinnifies how I looked," said Mrs. Poyser; "looks 'ull mend no jugs, nor laughing neither, as I see. Mr. Bede, I'm sorry you've to wait so long for your ale, but it's coming in a minute.
I am in dismay, Thou must show the way, For the night her shroud is weaving. "Flomma, lomma, hys, Sang I of a kiss, No, thou surely art mistaken. Didst thou hear it, say? Cast the thought away; Look on me as one forsaken. "Oh, good-night! good-night! Dreams of eyes so bright, Hold me now in soft embraces, But that wily word, Which thou thought'st unheard, Leaves in me of love no traces.
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