The Barons' Wars, Nymphidia, and Other Poems

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G. Routledge., 1887 - Всего страниц: 288

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Стр. 222 - ... 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. Now at the last gasp of 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...
Стр. 171 - Fairies still, Nor never can they have their fill, As they were wedded to them ; No tales of them their thirst can slake, So much delight therein they take, And some strange thing they fain would make, Knew they the way to do them.
Стр. 222 - 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. 176 - He would not have abode it. She mounts her chariot with a trice, Nor would she stay for no advice, Until her maids that were so nice To wait on her were fitted ; But ran herself away alone, Which when they heard, there was not one But hasted after to be gone, As she had been diswitted.
Стр. 202 - Which ceaseth not to tempt me to each ill, Nor gives me once but one poor minute's rest; In me it speaks, whether I sleep or wake, And when by means to drive it out I try, With greater torments then it me doth take, And tortures me in most extremity; Before my face it lays down my despairs, And hastes me on unto a sudden death, *° Now tempting me to drown myself in tears, And then in sighing to give up my breath. Thus am I still provoked to every evil By this good wicked spirit, sweet angel devil.
Стр. 214 - Age rules my lines with wrinkles in my face ; Where, in the Map of all my Misery...
Стр. 180 - This Puck seems but a dreaming dolt, Still walking like a ragged colt, And oft out of a bush doth bolt, Of purpose to deceive us ; And, leading us, makes us to stray, Long winters nights out of the way, And when we stick in mire and clay, He doth with laughter leave us.
Стр. 172 - Jove prosper my proceeding! And thou, Nymphidia, gentle fay, Which, meeting me upon the way, These secrets didst to me bewray Which now I am in telling: My pretty light fantastic maid, I here invoke thee to my aid, That I may speak what thou hast said, In numbers smoothly swelling.
Стр. 238 - Marlowe, bathed in the Thespian springs, Had in him those brave translunary things That the first poets had, his raptures were All air and fire, which made his verses clear ; For that fine madness still he did retain Which rightly should possess a poet's brain.
Стр. 184 - And puts him on a coat of mail, Which was of a fish's scale. That when his foe should him assail, No point should be prevailing : His rapier was a hornet's sting ; It was a very dangerous thing, For if he chanced to hurt the King, It would be long in healing.

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