The British Poets: Including Translations ...

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C. Whittingham, 1822
 

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Seite 168 - The more they on it stare. But her sad eyes, still fastened on the ground, Are governed with goodly modesty, That suffers not one look to glance awry Which may let in a little thought unsound.
Seite 192 - So every spirit, as it is most pure, And hath in it the more of heavenly light, So it the fairer bodie doth procure To habit in, and it more fairely dight With chearefull grace and amiable sight ; For of the soule the bodie forme doth take ; For soule is forme, and doth the bodie make.
Seite 173 - Doe burne, that to us wretched earthly clods In dreadful darknesse lend desired light; And all ye powers which in the same...
Seite 164 - Phoebus, father of the Muse If ever I did honour thee aright, Or sing the thing, that mote thy mind delight, Doe not thy servants simple boone refuse, But let this day, let this one day, be myne, Let all the rest be thine.
Seite 104 - So purely white they were, That even the gentle streame, the which them bare, Seem'd foule to them, and bad his billowes spare To wet their silken feathers, least they might Soyle their fayre plumes with water not so fayre, And marre their beauties bright, That shone as heavens light, Against their Brydale day, which was not long: Sweete Themmes! runne softly, till I end my Song.
Seite 123 - Sweet is the Nut, but bitter is his pill; Sweet is the Broome-flowre, but yet sowre enough; And sweet is Moly, but his root is ill.
Seite 106 - So they, enranged well, Did on those two attend, And their best service lend Against their wedding day, which was not long: Sweet Thames run softly, till I end my song.
Seite 169 - And bonefiers make all day; And daunce about them, and about them sing, That all the woods may answer, and your eccho ring. Ah ! when will this long weary day have end, And lende me leave to come unto my love ? How slowly do the houres theyr numbers spend ? How slowly does sad Time his feathers move?
Seite 167 - And blesseth her with his two happy hands, How the red roses flush up in her cheekes, And the pure snow, with goodly vermill stayne Like crimsin dyde in grayne : That even th...
Seite 143 - ... weary chace, Seeing the game from him escapt away, Sits downe to rest him in some shady place, With panting hounds beguiled of their pray...

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