Isoult Barry of Wynscote her diurnal book

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John F. Shaw, 1871 - Всего страниц: 408

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Стр. 275 - And now, little children, abide in him; that, when he shall appear, we may have confidence, and not be ashamed before him at his coming.
Стр. 267 - For though I preach the gospel, I have nothing to glory of: for necessity is laid upon me ; yea, woe is unto me, if I preach not the gospel...
Стр. 183 - O purblind race of miserable men, How many among us at this very hour Do forge a life-long trouble for ourselves, By taking true for false, or false for true ; Here, thro...
Стр. 384 - Lest mine enemy say, I have prevailed against him; and those that trouble me rejoice when I am moved. 5 But I have trusted in thy mercy; my heart shall rejoice in thy salvation. 6 I will sing unto the Lord, because he hath dealt bountifully with me.
Стр. 285 - My lute, awake, perform the last Labour that thou and I shall waste, And end that I have now begun, And when this song is sung and past, My lute, be still, for I have done.
Стр. 111 - Why therefore should we do ourselves this wrong, Or others, that we are not always strong; That we are ever overborne with care; That we should ever weak or heartless be, Anxious or troubled, when with us is prayer. And joy and strength and courage are with Thee.
Стр. 248 - JESUS is our Shepherd, Wiping every tear ; Folded in His bosom, What have we to fear ? Only let us follow ' Whither He doth lead, To the thirsty desert, Or the dewy mead.
Стр. 235 - I am come hither to die, and not to purge myself, as some think peradventure, that I will. For if I should do so I were a very wretch and miser.
Стр. 246 - With milk and honey blest ; Beneath thy contemplation Sink heart and voice opprest. I know not, oh ! I know not What joys await us there ; What radiancy of glory, "What bliss beyond compare.
Стр. 84 - Paulo, thou wert the completest knight, That ever rode with banner to the fight ; And thou wert the most beautiful to see, That ever came in press of chivalry ; And of a sinful man, thou wert the best, That ever for his friend put spear in rest ; And thou wert the most meek and cordial, That ever among ladies eat in hall ; And thou wert still, for all that bosom gored, The kindest man that ever struck with sword.

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