They will be like shadows, they will be like wraiths, gray members of a congregation of nightmare; hark! his long wavering howl. . . an aria of fear made audible. The wolfsong is the sound of the rending you will suffer, in itself a murdering.
When heaven doth weep, doth not the earth o'erflow? If the winds rage, doth not the sea wax mad, Threatening the welking with his big-swoln face? And wilt though have a reason for this coil? I am the sea; hark, how her sighs do blow! She is the weeping welkin, I the earth: Then must my sea be moved with her sighs; Then must my earth with her continual tears Become a deluge, overflow'd and drown'd; For why my bowels cannot hide her woes, But like a drunkard must I vomit them. Then give me leave, for losers will have leave To ease their stomachs with their bitter tongues.
Hark ye, you Cocklyn and la Bouche, I find by strengthening you, I have put a rod into your hands to whip myself, but I am still able to deal with you both; but since we met in love, let us part in love, for I find that three of a trade can never agree.
Hark! I hear the tramp of thousands, And of armèd men the hum; Lo, a nation's hosts have gathered Round the quick alarming drum Saying, Come, Freemen, Come! Ere your heritage be wasted, Said the quick alarming drum.
Hark! She is called, the parting hour is come. Take thy farewell, poor world! Heaven must go home. . . .
Hark, the glad sound! The Saviour comes, The Saviour promised long; Let every heart exult with joy, And every voice be song!
Hark, how chimes the passing bell! There's no music to a knell; All the other sounds we hear, Flatter, and but cheat our ear. This doth put us still in mind That our flesh must be resigned, And, a general silence made, The world be muffled in a shade.
Hark! o'er the dread abyss the sea-bird screams-- The rocks resound--again the lightning gleams!
The winds are nothing else but good or bad spirits. Hark! how the Devil is puffing and blowing.
But children, hark! Your mother would rather, When you arrived, have been your father.
Hark, dumbass, the error is not to fall but to fall from no height. Don't fall off a curb, fall off a cliff.
Hail to St. Aegolius Our Alma Mater. Hail, our song we raise in praise of thee Long in the memory of every loyal owl Thy splendid banner emblazoned be. Now to thy golden talons Homage we're bringing. Guiding symbol of our hopes and fears Hark to the cries of eternal praises ringing Long may we triumph in the coming years. - The Owls of St. Aegolius
Take but degree away, untune that string, and hark, what discord follows!
