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Updated: June 3, 2025
In his experience people who wanted to borrow dealt differently. Here was a lofty soul, who might, on the other hand, be guided to lend! In the course of a long conversation Melise unbosomed. He was newly a lover and liked the part. The Baron ended his confession thus "So, my dear friend, you see how it is with me. I have never met you before the more's the pity.
"Carelessly! what do you mean? I cannot wheel them in front of me on a barrow can I? I want to pay them into my account at Fehervár the day after to-morrow; I have payments to make. That is why I carry them about with me." "I only meant to say that it is dangerous to go about alone with so much money." "I am not in the habit of going about with an escort." "The more's the pity, Domnule.
So they refused, and Henry cut off the heads of two of the best Bishop Fisher and Sir Thomas More though they had been his great friends. Sir Thomas More's good daughter Margaret, came and kissed him on his way to be executed; and afterwards, when his head was placed on a spike on London Bridge, she came by night in a boat and took it home in her arms.
The same foresight which appears in More's treatment of the questions of Labour and the Public Health is yet more apparent in his treatment of the question of Crime. He was the first to suggest that punishment was less effective in suppressing it than prevention.
"I was disbanded when my Lord Essex gave up the command, more's the pity, for he was for doing things soberly and reasonably, and ever in the name of the poor King that is gone! You look too young to have seen fire at Edgehill or Exeter, sir." "Did I not?" said the youth. "Aye, I was with my father, though only as a boy apart on a hill."
"Who is he, you ignorant crokidile! why, he's the capting of the Great Eastern, the commander o' the Big Ship, the Great Mogul o' the quarter-deck, the king o' the expedition. But, of course, you 'aven't bin introdooced to him. He don't associate much with small fry like us more's the pity, for it might do 'im good.
"No, there's no snow that's true; but a little more frost'd do no harm." "Why? Cooler to work in d'you mean?" "That, too, perhaps; yes. But the saw cuts easier when timber's frozen." "You're an old hand at this work, then?" "Yes." "And are you the one that sings?" "No, more's the pity. He is the one that sings." "Oh, so you are the singer, are you? We're namesakes, I believe?"
She was, indeed, one of the excellent of the earth, permitted long to beautify the church which she had so mainly helped to strengthen and advance, and to be an honor to the land where she had nobly stood forth to repel the assaults of revolutionizing impiety. I often wonder that so little stress is laid upon this branch of Mrs. More's extensive labors.
Sometimes More puts the case as of France when he means England. Sometimes there is ironical praise of the good faith of Christian kings, saving the book from censure as a political attack on the policy of Henry VIII. Erasmus wrote to a friend in 1517 that he should send for More's "Utopia," if he had not read it, and "wished to see the true source of all political evils."
What rank Arminianism! I am sure the last notion that ever would have entered the head of Sir Walter was to take Peveril to heaven. But whatever may be thought of the respective merits of Miss More's nineteen volumes and Sir Walter's ninety-eight, there is no doubt that Barley Wood was as much infested with visitors as ever was Abbotsford. Eighty a week!
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