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Page 99 - It was a lover and his lass, With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino, That o'er the green corn-field did pass In the spring time, the only pretty ring time, When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding: Sweet lovers love the spring.
Page 143 - When daffodils begin to peer, With heigh ! the doxy over the dale, Why then comes in the sweet o' the year ; For the red blood reigns in the winter's pale. The white sheet bleaching on the hedge, With heigh ! the sweet birds, O, how they sing ! Doth set my pugging tooth on edge ; For a quart of ale is a dish for a king. The lark that tirra-lirra...
Page 31 - The barge she sat in, like a burnish'd throne, Burn'd on the water: the poop was beaten gold; Purple the sails, and so perfumed that The winds were love-sick with them...
Page 82 - Two households, both alike in dignity, In fair Verona, where we lay our scene, From ancient grudge break to new mutiny, Where civil blood makes civil hands unclean. From forth the fatal loins of these two foes A pair of star-cross'd lovers take their life ; Whose misadventur'd piteous overthrows Do, with their death, bury their parents
Page 30 - Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks! rage! blow! You cataracts and hurricanoes, spout Till you have drench'd our steeples, drown'd the cocks! You sulphurous and thought-executing fires, Vaunt-couriers to oak-cleaving thunderbolts, Singe my white head! And thou all-shaking thunder, Strike flat the thick rotundity o
Page 81 - If we shadows have offended. Think but this, and all is mended, That you have but slumber'd here While these visions did appear. And this weak and idle theme, No more yielding but a dream, Gentles, do not reprehend...
Page 44 - When that the general is not like the hive, To whom the foragers shall all repair, What honey is expected ? Degree being vizarded, The unworthiest shows as fairly in the mask. The heavens themselves, the planets and this centre, Observe degree, priority, and place...
Page 40 - Could great men thunder As Jove himself does, Jove would ne'er be quiet ; For every pelting, petty officer, Would use his heaven for thunder ; nothing but thunder.
Page 136 - The spinsters and the knitters in the sun, And the free maids that weave their thread with bones, Do use to chant it ; it is silly sooth, And dallies with the innocence of love, Like the old age.
Page 119 - Orpheus with his lute made trees, And the mountain tops that freeze, Bow themselves when he did sing ; To his music plants and flowers Ever sprung, as sun and showers There had made a lasting spring. Every thing that heard him play, Even the billows of the sea, Hung their heads, and then lay by. In sweet music is such art, Killing care and grief of heart Fall asleep, or hearing die.