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Страница 68 - If all the world and love were young, And truth in every shepherd's tongue, These pretty pleasures might me move To live with thee and be thy Love.
Страница 66 - Her voice was good, and the ditty fitted for it; 'twas that smooth song which was made by Kit Marlow, now at least fifty years ago : and the milkmaid's mother sung an answer to it, which was made by Sir Walter Raleigh in his younger days. They were old-fashioned poetry, but choicely good, I think much better than the strong lines that are now in fashion in this critical age.
Страница 68 - Fair lined slippers for the cold, With buckles of the purest gold; A belt of straw, and ivy buds, With coral clasps, and amber studs: And if these pleasures may thee move. Come live with me, and be my love.
Страница 105 - Courts, I would rejoice ; Or, with my Bryan and a book, Loiter long days near Shawford brook ; There sit by him, and eat my meat ; There see the sun both rise and set ; There bid good morning to next day ; There meditate my time away ; And angle on, and beg to have A quiet passage to a welcome grave.
Страница xxvii - Who God doth late and early pray. More of his grace than gifts to lend, And entertains the harmless day With a...
Страница 69 - Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses, Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies, Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten, In folly ripe, in reason rotten. Thy belt of straw and ivy buds, Thy coral clasps and amber studs, All these in me no means can move To come to thee and be thy love.
Страница xxi - Complete Angler; or, The Contemplative Man's Recreation : being a Discourse of Rivers, Fishponds. Fish and Fishing, written by IZAAK WALTON ; and Instructions how to Angle for a Trout or Grayling in a clear Stream, by CHARLES COTTON.
Страница 237 - Here's no fantastic masque, nor dance, But of our kids that frisk and prance; Nor wars are seen, Unless upon the green Two harmless lambs are butting one the other...
Страница 66 - No, I thank you; but, I pray, do us a courtesy that shall stand you and your daughter in nothing, and yet we will think ourselves still something in your debt: it is but to sing us a song that was sung by your daughter when I last passed over this meadow, about eight or nine days since. MILK- WOMAN. What song was it, I pray? Was it, "Come, shepherds, deck your herds"? or "As at noon Dulcina rested"?