The English poets, selections, ed. by T.H. Ward. Chaucer to DonneThomas Humphry Ward 1880 |
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Página 38
... Quod the sperhaukë . “ ' Never mote she thee3 ! Loo , suche hyt ys to have a tongë loos ! Now pardé , fool , yet were hit bet for the Have holde thy pes , than shewed thy nycëté ; Hyt lyth not in hys wyt , nor in hys wille ; But sooth ...
... Quod the sperhaukë . “ ' Never mote she thee3 ! Loo , suche hyt ys to have a tongë loos ! Now pardé , fool , yet were hit bet for the Have holde thy pes , than shewed thy nycëté ; Hyt lyth not in hys wyt , nor in hys wille ; But sooth ...
Página 39
Thomas Humphry Ward. 1 Ye ! quek ! yet , ' quod the dukë , ' wel and faire ! There ben moo sterrës , God woot , than a paire . ' ' Now fy , cherl ! ' quod the gentil tercëlet , - ' Out of the dunghil com that word ful ryght ; Thou kanst ...
Thomas Humphry Ward. 1 Ye ! quek ! yet , ' quod the dukë , ' wel and faire ! There ben moo sterrës , God woot , than a paire . ' ' Now fy , cherl ! ' quod the gentil tercëlet , - ' Out of the dunghil com that word ful ryght ; Thou kanst ...
Página 40
... quod I. ' Now wel , ' quod he : ' First , I , that in my feet have thee , Of which thou hast a fere and wonder , Am dwellyng with the god of thonder , Whiche that men callen Jupiter , That dooth me flee ful oftë fer To do al hys ...
... quod I. ' Now wel , ' quod he : ' First , I , that in my feet have thee , Of which thou hast a fere and wonder , Am dwellyng with the god of thonder , Whiche that men callen Jupiter , That dooth me flee ful oftë fer To do al hys ...
Página 57
... quod he , ' And if this knyght wol sweren how that she This womman slow , yet wole we vs auyse Whom that we wole that shal ben our Iustyse . ' A Briton book , writen with Euangyles , Was fet , and on this book he swor anoon She gilty ...
... quod he , ' And if this knyght wol sweren how that she This womman slow , yet wole we vs auyse Whom that we wole that shal ben our Iustyse . ' A Briton book , writen with Euangyles , Was fet , and on this book he swor anoon She gilty ...
Página 59
... quod she , ' and maydë bright , Marye , Soth is that thurgh womannës eggëment 2 Mankynd was lorn and damned ay to dye , For which thy child was on a croys yrent ; Thy blisful yën seye al his torment ; Than is ther no comparisoun bitwene ...
... quod she , ' and maydë bright , Marye , Soth is that thurgh womannës eggëment 2 Mankynd was lorn and damned ay to dye , For which thy child was on a croys yrent ; Thy blisful yën seye al his torment ; Than is ther no comparisoun bitwene ...
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The English Poets, Selections, Ed. by T.H. Ward. Chaucer to Donne Thomas Humphry Ward Sin vista previa disponible - 2015 |
Términos y frases comunes
Aeneid Astrophel and Stella ballads beauty Caelica Canterbury Tales Chaucer Clerk Saunders Confessio Amantis dead death delight doth drede Edom English eyes Faery Queen fair fayre flour flowers Glasgerion gold grace grene gret grete gude hart hast hath heart heaven herte hire honour king lady live Lord lovers Lydgate Lyoun mede mind mony myght never night nocht nought passion Petrarch poem poet poetical poetry Quhat Quhen quhilk quod quoth rhyme royal rich Robin Robin Hood sall sayd sche scho Scotch seyde shal Sidney Sidney's sight sing song sonnets sorwe Spenser suld sweet swete swich thair thay thee ther thing THOMAS OCCLEVE thou thought thow Timor Mortis conturbat Troylus true truth tyme unto Venus verse whan wight wolde word write wyth
Pasajes populares
Página 459 - 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.
Página 449 - Full many a glorious morning have I seen Flatter the mountain-tops with sovereign eye, Kissing with golden face the meadows green, Gilding pale streams with heavenly alchemy; Anon permit the basest clouds to ride With ugly rack on his celestial face, And from the forlorn world his visage hide, Stealing unseen to west with this disgrace.
Página 448 - When in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes, I all alone beweep my outcast state, And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries, And look upon myself, and curse my fate, Wishing me like to one more rich in hope, Featured like him, like him with friends possessed, Desiring this man's art, and that man's scope...
Página 450 - O, how much more doth beauty beauteous seem By that sweet ornament which truth doth give! The rose looks fair, but fairer we it deem For that sweet odour which doth in it live.
Página 485 - 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.
Página 458 - Hark, hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings, And Phoebus 'gins arise, His steeds to water at those springs On chaliced flowers that lies; And winking Mary-buds begin To ope their golden eyes: With every thing that pretty is, My lady sweet, arise: Arise, arise.
Página 450 - 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 xiii - 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.
Página 347 - 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?
Página 423 - Love in my bosom like a bee Doth suck his sweet: Now with his wings he plays with me, Now with his feet. Within mine eyes he makes his nest, His bed amidst my tender breast; My kisses are his daily feast, And yet he robs me of my rest. Ah, wanton, will ye?