Men might say, Till this time pomp was single, but now married To one above itself.
O, God’s will, much better She ne’er had known pomp!
Vain pomp and glory of this world, I hate ye!
This holy fox, Or wolf, or both,—for he is equal ravenous As he is subtle, and as prone to mischief As able to perform’t; his mind and place Infecting one another, yea, reciprocally— Only to show his pomp as well in France As here at home, suggests the King our master To this last costly treaty, the interview, That swallowed so much treasure, and like a glass Did break i’ the rinsing.
Here’s the pang that pinches: His Highness having liv’d so long with her, and she So good a lady that no tongue could ever Pronounce dishonour of her,—by my life, She never knew harm-doing—O, now, after So many courses of the sun enthroned, Still growing in a majesty and pomp, the which To leave a thousand-fold more bitter than ’tis sweet at first to acquire,—after this process, To give her the avaunt, it is a pity Would move a monster.
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announced with pomp and splendor
There was an expectancy about its sounds and shapes: the distant chunk pomp of leather and young bodies on the practice field near her house made her think of bands and cold Coca-Colas, parched peanuts and the sight of people’s breath in the air.