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Astral Ballads bear beautiful better birds Born bright bring charms cheer choice Christmas collection Daffodil Daintie Devices delight derry doth drink dumb English equal excellent eyes face fair fear fire flowers give golden gone grave green Grinder hands haste hath head hear heard heart Heigh hunt John jolly keep kind King leave light lines live London look lovers meet merry morning mother ne'er neat never night nymph o'er old Courtier once Paradise of Daintie play pleasant pleasure poems poor Pratt pretty printed published Queen's rest round shepherd side sigh sing smiles song swain sweet tell thee thing thou thought tidings tongue true UNKNOWN wantons Wilt wine woman young Courtier
Стр. 95 - HE that loves a rosy cheek, Or a coral lip admires, Or from star-like eyes doth seek Fuel to maintain his fires: As old Time makes these decay, So his flames must waste away. But a smooth and steadfast mind, Gentle thoughts, and calm desires, Hearts with equal love combined, Kindle never-dying fires:— Where these are not, I despise Lovely cheeks, or lips, or eyes.
Стр. 58 - Still to be neat, still to be drest, As you were going to a feast ; Still to be powdered, still perfumed : Lady, it is to be presumed, Though art's hid causes are not found, All is not sweet, all is not sound. Give me a look, give me a face, That makes simplicity a grace : Robes loosely flowing, hair as free : Such sweet neglect more taketh me, Than all the adulteries of art ; They strike mine eyes, but not my heart.
Стр. 20 - The glories of our blood and state Are shadows, not substantial things ; There is no armour against fate ; Death lays his icy hand on kings : Sceptre and crown Must tumble down, And in the dust be equal made With the poor crooked scythe and spade.
Стр. 21 - 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. The garlands wither on your brow, Then boast no more your mighty deeds; Upon Death's purple altar now See, where the victor-victim bleeds: Your heads must come To the cold tomb; Only the actions of the just Smell sweet, and blossom...
Стр. 51 - The poetry of earth is never dead: When all the birds are faint with the hot Sun, And hide in cooling trees, a voice will run From hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead. That is the grasshopper's : he takes the lead In summer luxury — he has never done With his delights, for when tired out with fun, He rests at ease beneath some pleasant weed.
Стр. 50 - Green little vaulter in the sunny grass Catching your heart up at the feel of June, Sole voice that's heard amidst the lazy noon, When ev'n the bees lag at the summoning brass; And you, warm little housekeeper, who class With those who think the candles come too soon, Loving the fire, and with your tricksome tune Nick the glad silent moments as they pass...
Стр. 104 - 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. 18 - I cannot eat but little meat, My stomach is not good ; But sure I think, that I can drink With him that wears a hood...
Стр. 60 - Yre pretty wantons, warble. Go, tell her, through your chirping bills, As you by me are bidden, To her is only known my love, Which from the world is hidden. Go, pretty birds, and tell her so ; See that your notes strain not too low.