The Works of John Marston: The Dutch courtezan. The fawn. The wonder of women, or, The tragedy of Sophonisba. What you will

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J.C. Nimmo, 1887

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Page 102 - a should not think of God ; I hoped there was no need to trouble himself with any such thoughts yet. So 'a bade me lay more clothes on his feet: I put my hand into the bed and felt them, and they were as cold as any stone ; then I felt to his knees, and so upward and upward, and all was as cold as any stone.
Page 363 - I was a scholar : seven useful springs Did I deflower in quotations Of cross'd opinions 'bout the soul of man ; The more I learnt, the more I learnt to doubt. Delight...
Page 146 - Harry, I do not only marvel where thou spendest thy time, but also how thou art accompanied : for though the camomile, the more it is trodden on, the faster it grows, yet youth, the more it is wasted, the sooner it wears.
Page 352 - Phantasia incomplexa, is a function, Even of the bright immortal part of man. It is the common pass, the sacred door, Unto the privy chamber of the soul, That barr'd, nought passeth past the baser court Of outward sense; by it th...
Page 197 - I could be content that we might procreate like trees, without conjunction, or that there were any way to perpetuate the world without this trivial and vulgar way of coition...
Page 322 - Scoff's artillery. • Shall he be crest-fall'n, if some looser brain, In flux of wit uncivilly befilth His slight composures? Shall his bosom faint, If drunken Censure belch out sour breath From Hatred's surfeit on his labour's front? Nay, say some half a dozen rancorous breasts Should plant themselves on purpose to discharge Imposthum'd malice on his latest scene, Shall his resolve be struck through with the blirt Of a goose-breath?
Page 112 - ... own addiction I love most, pity some, hate none ; for let me truly say it, I once only loved myself, for loving them, and surely I shall ever rest so constant to my first affection, that let their ungentle combinings, discourteous whisperings, never so treacherously labour to undermine my unfenced reputation, I shall (as long as I have being) love the least of their graces, and only pity the greatest of their vices.
Page 48 - tis grown one of the most unsavoury ceremonies: body o' beauty ! 'tis one of the most unpleasing injurious customs to ladies : any fellow that has but one nose on his face, and standing collar and skirts also...
Page 372 - tis grown a figment, love a jest, A comic poesy ! The soul of man is rotten, Even to the core ; — no sound affection. Our love is hollow-vaulted — stands on props Of circumstance, profit, or ambitious hopes ! The other tissue...
Page 41 - Murder wants power to touch't. O wit, how vile ! How hellish art thou, when thou raisest nature 'Gainst sacred faith ! Think more : to kill a friend To gain a woman ! to lose a virtuous self For appetite and sensual end, whose very having...

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