A History of Elizabethan Literature

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Cosimo, Inc., 1 дек. 2005 г. - Всего страниц: 488
As Shakespere is by far the greatest of all writers, ancient or modern, so he has been the subject of commentorial folly to an extent, which dwarfs the expense of that folly on any other single subject... [T]here is always the danger either that some mischievous notions may be left undisturbed by the neglect to notice them, or that the critic himself may be presumed to be ignorant of the foolishness of his predecessors. These inconveniences, however, must here be risked, and it may perhaps be thought that the necessity of risking them is a salutary one.-from "The Second Dramatic Period-Shakespere"George Saintsbury, one of the finest Victorian thinkers on literature, called the output of British writers in the years between 1560 and 1660 "the greatest period of the greatest literature of the world," and his insight and enthusiasm fills this sweeping survey of that era. The words of the Elizabethan writers alone-Marlowe, Spenser, Shakespeare, Bacon, Raleigh, Milton-would be a grand enough evocation of their brilliance, but Saintsbury's singing of their praises, for all its erudition and knowledge, is a glorious tribute to their genius. Poets, playwrights, and pamphleteers, all get their just due here, in a book that will thrill lovers of magnificent literature.British journalist and critic GEORGE EDWARD BATEMAN SAINTSBURY (1845-1933) was a regular contributor to the Saturday Review. His books include A Primer of French Literature (1880), the two-volume Essays in English Literature, 1780-1860 (1890-1895), and the three-volume A History of Criticism (1900-1904).

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Стр. 115 - Since there's no help. come let us kiss and part: Nay. I have done: you get no more of me. And I am glad. yea. glad with all my heart. That thus so cleanly I myself can free: Shake hands for ever. cancel all our vows. And when we meet at any time again. Be it not seen in either of our brows That we one jot of former love retain.
Стр. 115 - Love's latest breath, When, his pulse failing, Passion speechless lies, When Faith is kneeling by his bed of death, And Innocence is closing up his eyes — Now, if thou would'st, when all have given him over, From death to life thou might'st him yet recover!
Стр. 126 - Give me my scallop-shell of quiet, My staff of faith to walk upon, My scrip of joy, immortal diet, My bottle of salvation, My gown of glory, hope's true gage, And thus I'll take my pilgrimage.
Стр. 110 - 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?
Стр. 75 - If all the pens that ever poets held Had fed the feeling of their masters' thoughts. And every sweetness that inspired their hearts. Their minds, and muses on admired themes; If all the heavenly quintessence they still From their immortal flowers of poesy, Wherein, as in a mirror, we perceive The highest reaches of a human wit; If these had made one poem's period, And all...
Стр. 119 - My faultless breast the furnace is, the fuel wounding thorns; Love is the fire, and sighs the smoke, the ashes shame and scorns; The fuel justice layeth on, and mercy blows the coals; The metal in this furnace wrought are men's defiled souls: For which, as now on fire I am to work them to their good, So will I melt into a bath to wash them in my blood.
Стр. 115 - Since there's no help, come, let us kiss and part! Nay, I have done. You get no more of me! And I am glad, yea, glad with all my heart, That thus so cleanly I myself can free. Shake hands for ever! Cancel all our vows! And when we meet at any time again, Be it not seen in either of our brows That we one jot of former love retain.
Стр. 122 - I have no other choice Either for pen or voice To sing or write. 0 Love ! they wrong thee much That say thy sweet is bitter, When thy rich fruit is such As nothing can be sweeter. Fair house of joy and bliss, Where truest pleasure is, I do adore thee...
Стр. 138 - Of tyrants' threats, or with the surly brow Of power, that proudly sits on others' crimes, Charged with more crying sins than those he checks. The storms of sad confusion, that may grow Up in the present for the coming times, Appal not him; that hath no side at all, But of himself, and knows the worst can fall.

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