ما يقوله الناس - كتابة مراجعة
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Account alſo appear bear becauſe beſt better bleſſed Blood Book bring Church Content dear Death Delight Divine doft Door doth Earth Eyes Faith fall fear firſt Friend gave give Glory God's Grace grief grow Hand happy hath Head hear Heart Heaven Herbert himſelf holy Honour Hope Hour Houſe keep King Learning leave leſs Light live look Lord Love mean Mind moſt Mother muſt Name never Night once Place Pleaſure poor Power Praiſe pray Prayers preſent rich Rules ſaid ſay ſee ſeek ſerve ſet ſhall ſhe ſhould Sins ſome Sorrow Soul Stars ſtill ſuch ſweet Tears tell thee theſe thine things thoſe thou art Thoughts thy ſelf took true turn unto uſe whoſe wilt Winds World
الصفحة 189 - I, the unkind, ungrateful ? Ah, my dear ! I cannot look on thee.' Love took my hand, and smiling did reply, 'Who made the eyes but I ?' 'Truth, Lord; but I have marred them; let my shame Go where it doth deserve.
الصفحة 27 - I will labour to make it honourable, by consecrating all my learning, and all my poor abilities, to advance the glory of that God that gave them ; knowing that I can never do too much for him that hath done so much for me as to make me a Christian. And I will labour to be like my Saviour, by making humility lovely in the eyes of all men, and by following the merciful and meek example of my dear Jesus.
الصفحة 179 - Thine is bent: 1 aspire To a full consent. Not a word or look I affect to own, But by book, And Thy Book alone. Though I fail, I weep; Though I halt in pace, Yet I creep To the throne of grace.
الصفحة 70 - Thou art a day of mirth : And where the week-days trail on ground, Thy flight is higher, as thy birth : O let me take thee at the bound, Leaping with thee from seven to seven, Till that we both, being toss'd from earth, Fly hand in hand to heaven ! AVARICE.
الصفحة 82 - The dew shall weep thy fall to-night ; For thou must die. Sweet Rose, whose hue, angry and brave, Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye, Thy root is ever in its grave, And thou must die. Sweet Spring, full of sweet days and roses, A box where sweets compacted lie, My music shows ye have your closes, And all must die.
الصفحة 69 - The Sundays of man's life, Threaded together on time's string Make bracelets to adorn the wife Of the eternal glorious King. On Sunday Heaven's gate stands ope Blessings are plentiful and rife, More plentiful than hope.
الصفحة 42 - Now I am here ; what thou wilt do with me, None of my books will show. I read, and sigh, and wish I were a tree ; For sure then I should grow To fruit, or shade ; at least some bird would trust Her household to me, and I should be just.
الصفحة 116 - HOPE. I GAVE to Hope a Watch of mine : but he An Anchor gave to me.