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Страница 250 - When in one night, ere glimpse of morn, His shadowy flail hath threshed the corn That ten day-labourers could not end ; Then lies him down the lubber fiend, And, stretched out all the chimney's length, Basks at the fire his hairy strength, And crop-full out of doors he flings, Ere the first cock his matin rings.
Страница 125 - At cards for kisses — Cupid paid ; He stakes his quiver, bow and arrows, His mother's doves, and team of sparrows ; Loses them too ; then down he throws The coral of his lip, the rose Growing on's cheek (but none knows how) ; With these, the crystal of his brow, And then the dimple of his chin : All these did my Campaspe win. At last he set her both his eyes, She won, and Cupid blind did rise. O Love ! has she done this to thee ? What shall, alas ! become of me...
Страница 216 - STILL to be neat, still to be drest, As you were going to a feast : Still to be powdered, still perfumed: Lady, it is to be presumed ; Though art's hid causes are not found, All is not sweet, all is not sound.
Страница 329 - True; a new Mistresse now I chase, The first Foe in the Field; And with a stronger Faith imbrace A Sword, a Horse, a Shield. Yet this Inconstancy is such, As you too shall adore; I could not love thee (Deare) so much, Lov'd I not Honour more.
Страница 386 - So shall the fairest face appear When youth and years are flown; Such is the robe that kings must wear When death has reft their crown.
Страница 385 - TWAS at the silent, solemn hour, When night and morning meet; In glided Margaret's grimly ghost, And stood at William's feet. Her face was like an April morn, Clad in a wintry cloud ; And clay-cold was her lily hand, That held her sable shroud.
Страница 190 - Tis not the frost, that freezes fell, Nor blawing snaw's inclemencie; 'Tis not sic cauld that makes me cry, But my Love's heart grown cauld to me.
Страница 390 - I hear a voice, you cannot hear, Which says, I must not stay; I see a hand, you cannot see, Which beckons me away.
Страница 240 - Think what with them they would do That without them dare to woo ; And unless that mind I see, What care I how great she be ? Great, or good, or kind, or fair, I will ne'er the more despair: If she love me, this believe, I will die ere she shall grieve : If she slight me when I woo, I can scorn and let her go ; For if she be not for me, What care I for whom she be ? George Wither.