Chaucer to BurnsWilliam James Linton, Richard Henry Stoddard C. Scribner's Sons, 1883 |
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Стр. xiii
... thou , cuckoo ! Ne swick thou never now . " It Early English Verse should be read with a thorough knowledge of the people for whom it was written , and the language in which it was written , for read other- wise it possesses but little ...
... thou , cuckoo ! Ne swick thou never now . " It Early English Verse should be read with a thorough knowledge of the people for whom it was written , and the language in which it was written , for read other- wise it possesses but little ...
Стр. xvi
... thou ert bute of all my bale : Als thou made midelerd and the mone , And bestes xvi INTRODUCTION .
... thou ert bute of all my bale : Als thou made midelerd and the mone , And bestes xvi INTRODUCTION .
Стр. xxii
... thou art come Glowing with Churchill's trophies ; yet in vain Dost thou applaud them , if thy heart be cold To him , this other hero ; who , in times Dark and untaught , began with charming verse To tame the rudeness of his native land ...
... thou art come Glowing with Churchill's trophies ; yet in vain Dost thou applaud them , if thy heart be cold To him , this other hero ; who , in times Dark and untaught , began with charming verse To tame the rudeness of his native land ...
Стр. 4
... thou best earthly bliss ! I will cherish thee for this : POESY ! thou sweet'st content That e'er Heaven to mortals lent ! WITHER . -From The Shepherd's Hunting . Chaucer to Burns . GEOFFREY CHAUCER , Born 1340 ? The Complaint unto his ...
... thou best earthly bliss ! I will cherish thee for this : POESY ! thou sweet'st content That e'er Heaven to mortals lent ! WITHER . -From The Shepherd's Hunting . Chaucer to Burns . GEOFFREY CHAUCER , Born 1340 ? The Complaint unto his ...
Стр. 8
... thou leave me thus , That hath given thee my heart , Never for to depart , Neither for pain nor smart ? And wilt thou leave me thus ? Say nay ! say nay ! And wilt thou leave me thus , And have no more pity Of him that loveth thee ? Alas ...
... thou leave me thus , That hath given thee my heart , Never for to depart , Neither for pain nor smart ? And wilt thou leave me thus ? Say nay ! say nay ! And wilt thou leave me thus , And have no more pity Of him that loveth thee ? Alas ...
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Ae fond kiss Æneid beauty bel ami BEN JONSON birds bless'd blushing bonnie breast breath bright Cædmon Chaucer cheeks CLORINDA Corydon crown Cuckoo dear death delight divine dost doth earth eyes fair fate fear fire flame flowers FRANCIS DAVISON GILES FLETCHER glory golden grace grief hair hand happy hast hath hear heart heaven heavenly Heigh hither JEAN ELLIOT joys King kiss Lady light lilies lips live look Love is dead Love's lovers Lycidas lyre Maid melancholy merry mind Mistress Muse N'oserez-vous ne'er never night nonny nought numbers Nymphs o'er pity play pleasure poems poet praise Queen RICHARD BROME roses shade shepherds shine sigh sight sing sleep smile song sonnets sorrow soul Spring stars stay sweet tears Tell thine thing thou art thought Tottel's Miscellany true love unto verse voice weep wind wings woods wooing o't wrote
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Стр. 225 - Going to the Wars TELL me not, Sweet, I am unkind, That from the nunnery Of thy chaste breast, and quiet mind, To war and arms I fly. True; a new mistress now I chase, The first foe in the field; And with a stronger faith embrace A sword, a horse, a shield. Yet this inconstancy is such, As you too shall adore; I could not love thee, dear, so much, Loved I not honour more.
Стр. 106 - Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky, That dost not bite so nigh As benefits forgot : Though thou the waters warp, Thy sting is not so sharp As friend remember'd not Heigh, ho ! sing, heigh, ho ! &c.
Стр. 262 - Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne And shut the gates of mercy on mankind ; The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide, To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame...
Стр. 104 - Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more, Men were deceivers ever, One foot in sea and one on shore, To one thing constant never : Then sigh not so, but let them go, And be you blithe and bonny, Converting all your sounds of woe Into Hey nonny, nonny.
Стр. 200 - Haste thee, Nymph, and bring with thee Jest and youthful Jollity, Quips, and Cranks, and wanton Wiles, Nods, and Becks, and wreathed Smiles, Such as hang on Hebe's cheek, And love to live in dimple sleek; Sport that wrinkled Care derides, And Laughter holding both his sides.
Стр. 288 - ... eye Could frame thy fearful symmetry? In what distant deeps or skies Burnt the fire of thine eyes? On what wings dare he aspire? What the hand dare seize the fire ? And what shoulder and what art Could twist the sinews of thy heart? And, when thy heart began to beat, What dread hand and what dread feet? What the hammer? What the chain? In what furnace was thy brain? What the anvil? What dread grasp Dare its deadly terrors clasp? When the stars threw down their spears, And water'd heaven with...
Стр. 111 - That time of year thou mayst in me behold When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang Upon those boughs which shake against the cold, Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang. In me thou see'st the twilight of such day As after sunset fadeth in the west; Which by and by black night doth take away, Death's second self, that seals up all in rest.
Стр. 129 - Drink to me only with thine eyes, And I will pledge with mine; Or leave a kiss but in the cup And I'll not look for wine. The thirst that from the soul doth rise Doth ask a drink divine; But might I of Jove's nectar sup, I would not change for thine.
Стр. 110 - Not marble, nor the gilded monuments Of princes, shall out-live this powerful rhyme ; But you shall shine more bright in these contents Than unswept stone, besmear'd with sluttish time. When wasteful war shall statues overturn, And broils root out the work of masonry, Nor Mars his sword, nor war's quick fire shall burn The living record of your memory.
Стр. 278 - Toll for the brave! Brave Kempenfelt is gone ; His last sea-fight is fought, His work of glory done. It was not in the battle ; No tempest gave the shock; She sprang no fatal leak, She ran upon no rock. His sword was in its sheath, His fingers held the pen, When Kempenfelt went down With twice four hundred men.