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40 cents Aeneid Astrophel and Stella ballads beauty Caelica Chaucer Clerk Saunders dead death delight doth Edited Edom Elizabethan England's Helicon English Classics Series English poetry eyes Faery Queen fair fear flowers Glasgerion Globe 8vo grace grene gret hand hast hath heart heaven herte hire honour king lady language literature live Lord lovers mind myght never night nocht Notes nought passion Petrarch play poem poet poetical poetry praise prose Queen quod quoth Robin Hood satire sche Scotch seyde Shakespeare shal Sidney sigh sight sing Skeat song sonnets sorrow soul Spenser Stella sweet swete swich tell thair thee ther thing thou thought thow Timor Mortis conturbat trewe Troylus true truth tyme unto Venus verse virtue W. W. Skeat whan wight wolde words write
Página 461 - 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. Not a flower, not a flower sweet, On my black coffin let there be strown...
Página 458 - O, for my sake do you with Fortune chide, The guilty goddess of my harmful deeds, That did not better for my life provide, Than public means, which public manners breeds. Thence comes it that my name receives a brand, And almost thence my nature is subdued To what it works in, like the dyer's hand...
Página xli - Tho' they may gang a kennin wrang, To step aside is human : One point must still be greatly dark, The moving Why they do it ; And just as lamely can ye mark, How far perhaps they rue it. Who made the heart, 'tis He alone Decidedly can try us, He knows each chord its various tone, Each spring its various bias : Then at the balance let's be mute, We never can adjust it ; What's done we partly may compute, But know not what's resisted.
Página 349 - WITH how sad steps, O Moon, thou climb'st the skies! How silently, and with how wan a face! What, may it be that even in heavenly place That busy archer his sharp arrows tries? Sure, if that long-with-love-acquainted eyes Can judge of love, thou feel'st a lover's case. I read it in thy looks; thy languished grace, To me that feel the like, thy state descries.
Página 587 - RC TRENCH, DD, Archbishop of Dublin. HOUSEHOLD BOOK OF ENGLISH POETRY. Selected and Arranged, with Notes.
Página 452 - So am I as the rich, whose blessed key Can bring him to his sweet up-locked treasure, The which he will not every hour survey, For blunting the fine point of seldom pleasure. Therefore are feasts so solemn and so rare, Since seldom coming, in the long year set, Like stones of worth they thinly placed are, Or captain* jewels in the carcanet.
Página 449 - As an unperfect actor on the stage Who with his fear is put besides his part, Or some fierce thing replete with too much rage, Whose strength's abundance weakens his own heart...
Página 451 - If thou survive my well-contented day, When that churl Death my bones with dust shall cover, And shalt by fortune once more re-survey These poor rude lines of thy deceased lover, Compare them with the bettering of the time, And though they be outstripp'd by every pen, Reserve them for my love, not for their rime, Exceeded by the height of happier men.
Página xvii - THE future of poetry is immense, because in poetry, where it is worthy of its high destinies, our race, as time goes on, will find an ever surer and surer stay. There is not a creed which is not shaken, not an accredited dogma which is not shown to be questionable, not a received tradition which does not threaten to dissolve.