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Tales eBook

This eBook from the Gutenberg Project consists of approximately 238 pages of information about Tales.
Will think no more of our enjoyments here.” 
   Sighing he spake—­but hark! he hears th’ approach
Of rattling wheels! and, lo! the evening coach;
Once more the movement of the horses’ feet
Makes the fond heart with strong emotion beat: 
Faint were his hopes, but ever had the sight
Drawn him to gaze beside his gate at night;
And when with rapid wheels it hurried by,
He grieved his parent with a hopeless sigh;
And could the blessing have been bought—­what sum
Had he not offer’d to have Jesse come! 
   She came—­he saw her bending from the door,
Her face, her smile, and he beheld no more;
Lost in his joy—­the mother lent her aid
T’assist and to detain the willing Maid;
Who thought her late, her present home to make,
Sure of a welcome for the Vicar’s sake: 
But the good parent was so pleased, so kind,
So pressing Colin, she so much inclined,
That night advanced; and then, so long detain’d,
No wishes to depart she felt, or feign’d;
Yet long in doubt she stood, and then perforce remain’d. 
   Here was a lover fond, a friend sincere;
Here was content and joy, for she was here: 
In the mild evening, in the scene around,
The Maid, now free, peculiar beauties found;
Blended with village-tones, the evening gale
Gave the sweet night-bird’s warblings to the vale: 
The Youth, embolden’d, yet abash’d, now told
His fondest wish, nor found the maiden cold;
The Mother smiling whisper’d, “Let him go
And seek the licence!” Jesse answer’d “No:” 
But Colin went.—­I know not if they live
With all the comforts wealth and plenty give;
But with pure joy to envious souls denied,
To suppliant meanness and suspicious pride;
And village-maids of happy couples say,
“They live like Jesse Bourn and Colin Grey.”



I am a villain; yet I lie, I am not: 
Fool! of thyself speak well:  —­Fool! do not flatter. 
My conscience hath a thousand several tongues,
And every tongue brings in a several tale. 
                           Shakespeare, Richard III.

My conscience is but a kind of hard conscience . . .  The fiend
gives the more friendly counsel. 
                                           Merchant of Venice.

Thou hast it now—­and I fear
Thou play’dst most foully for it. 

Canst thou not minister to a mind diseased,
Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow,
Rase out the written troubles of the brain,
And with some sweet oblivious antidote
Cleanse the foul bosom of that perilous stuff
Which weighs upon the heart? 

Soft!  I did but dream. 
Oh! coward conscience, how thou dost afflict me. 
Richard III.

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