The Works of the English Poets: Shenstone

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H. Hughs, 1779
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Страница 148 - I have found out a gift for my fair ; I have found where the wood-pigeons breed ; But let me that plunder forbear, She will say 'twas a barbarous deed : For he ne'er could be true, she averr'd, Who could rob a poor bird of its young ; And I lov'd her the more when I heard Such tenderness fall from her tongue.
Страница 147 - But with tendrils of woodbine is bound; Not a beech's more beautiful green. But a sweet-briar entwines it around. Not my fields in the prime of the year, More charms than my cattle unfold; Not a brook that is limpid and clear, But it glitters with fishes of gold.
Страница 280 - And pungent radish, biting infant's tongue ; And plantain ribb'd, that heals the reaper's wound ; And marjoram sweet, in shepherd's posie found ; And lavender, whose spikes of azure bloom Shall be erewhile in arid bundles bound, To lurk amid the labours of her loom, And crown her kerchiefs clean with mickle rare perfume.
Страница 149 - She is ev'ry way pleafing to me. 0 you that have been of her train, Come and join in my amorous lays ; 1 could lay down my life for the fwain, That will fing but a fong in her praife.
Страница 279 - Twas her own country bred the flock so fair; 'Twas her own labour did the fleece prepare...
Страница 151 - I have nothing to do but to weep. Yet do not my folly reprove ; She was fair — and my passion begun ; She smiled — and I could not but love ; She is faithless — and I am undone.
Страница 145 - I priz'd every hour that went by, Beyond all that had pleas'd me before; But now they are past, and I sigh ; And I grieve that I priz'd them no more.
Страница 13 - The glim'ring twilight and the doubtful dawn Shall fee your ftep to thefe fad fcenes return : Conftant, as cryftal dews impearl the lawn, Shall STREPHON'S tear bedew OPHELIA'S urn ! Sure nought unhallow'd mall prefume to ftray Where fleep the reliques of that virtuous maid : Nor aught unlovely bend its devious way, Where foft OPHELIA'S dear remains are laid.
Страница 283 - But, ah! what pen his piteous plight may trace, Or what device his loud laments explain...
Страница 280 - Fresh baum, and marygold of cheerful hue : The lowly gill, that never dares to climb ; And more I fain would sing, disdaining here to rhyme.

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