English Lyric Poetry, 1500-1700

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Frederic Ives Carpenter
Blackie & son, limited, 1897 - 276 страници

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Страница 223 - TELL me not, sweet, I am unkind, — That from the nunnery Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind To war and arms I fly. True, a new mistress now I chase, The first foe in the field ; And with a stronger faith embrace A sword, a horse, a shield. Yet this inconstancy is such As you, too, shall adore ; I could not love thee, dear, so much. Loved I not honour more.
Страница 85 - Come away, come away, death, And in sad cypress let me be laid ; Fly away, fly away, breath ; I am slain by a fair cruel maid. My shroud of white, stuck all with yew, O, prepare it ! My part of death, no one so true Did share it.
Страница 190 - Pelops' line, Or the tale of Troy divine ; Or what, though rare, of later age Ennobled hath the buskin'd stage. But, O sad virgin, that thy power Might raise Musaeus from his bower ! Or bid the soul of Orpheus sing Such notes, as, warbled to the string, Drew iron tears down Pluto's cheek, And made hell grant what love did seek...
Страница 149 - How happy is he born and taught, That serveth not another's will! Whose armour is his honest thought, And simple truth his utmost skill...
Страница 226 - Some men with swords may reap the field, And plant fresh laurels where they kill : But their strong nerves at last must yield ; They tame but one another still : Early or late They stoop to fate, And must give up their murmuring breath When they, pale captives, creep to death.
Страница 88 - When to the sessions of sweet silent thought I summon up remembrance of things past, I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought, And with old woes new wail my dear time's waste...
Страница 89 - gainst his glory fight, And Time that gave, doth now his gift confound. Time doth transfix the flourish set on youth, And delves the parallels in beauty's brow, Feeds on the rarities of nature's truth, And nothing stands but for his scythe to mow.
Страница 150 - Who God doth late and early pray More of His grace than gifts to lend; And entertains the harmless day With a...
Страница 85 - He is dead and gone, lady, He is dead and gone ; At his head a grass-green turf, At his heels a stone.
Страница 81 - Philomel, with melody Sing in our sweet lullaby; Lulla, lulla, lullaby ; lulla, lulla, lullaby ; Never harm, nor spell nor charm, Come our lovely lady nigh; So, good night, with lullaby.

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