History of the English Language and LiteratureE. Hopkins, 1837 - 328 pages |
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Page 8
... thou hast iloret The flour of all chivalerie , Nou Kyng Edward liveth na more , Alas ! that he yet shulde deye ! He wolde ha rered up ful hey get Our baners that bueth broht to grounde ; Wel longe we mowe clefes and crie , Er we such a ...
... thou hast iloret The flour of all chivalerie , Nou Kyng Edward liveth na more , Alas ! that he yet shulde deye ! He wolde ha rered up ful hey get Our baners that bueth broht to grounde ; Wel longe we mowe clefes and crie , Er we such a ...
Page 40
... thou wert when thou did grow With thy green mother in some shady grove , When immelodious winds but made thee move , And birds their ramage * did on thee bestow . Since that dear voice which did thy sounds approve , Which wont in such ...
... thou wert when thou did grow With thy green mother in some shady grove , When immelodious winds but made thee move , And birds their ramage * did on thee bestow . Since that dear voice which did thy sounds approve , Which wont in such ...
Page 50
... Thou speak'st as if I lay upon my death - bed , Gasping for breath . Dost thou perceive me such ? Bos . Yes ! WEBSTER . Duch . Thou art not mad ! Dost 54 FROM 1558 TO 1649 .
... Thou speak'st as if I lay upon my death - bed , Gasping for breath . Dost thou perceive me such ? Bos . Yes ! WEBSTER . Duch . Thou art not mad ! Dost 54 FROM 1558 TO 1649 .
Page 51
... Thou art very plain . Bos . My trade is to flatter the dead , not the living . I am a tomb - maker . Duch . And thou comest to make my tomb ? Bos . Yes ! Duch . Let me be a little merry : Of what stuff wilt thou make it ? Bos . Nay ...
... Thou art very plain . Bos . My trade is to flatter the dead , not the living . I am a tomb - maker . Duch . And thou comest to make my tomb ? Bos . Yes ! Duch . Let me be a little merry : Of what stuff wilt thou make it ? Bos . Nay ...
Page 52
... thou givest my little boy Some syrup for his cold , and let the girl Say her prayers ere she sleep . Now what you please ? What death ? Bos . Strangling - here are your executioners . Executioners . We are ready . Duch . Dispose my ...
... thou givest my little boy Some syrup for his cold , and let the girl Say her prayers ere she sleep . Now what you please ? What death ? Bos . Strangling - here are your executioners . Executioners . We are ready . Duch . Dispose my ...
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admired afterwards American appeared biographical blank verse celebrated century character Charles Charles II Chaucer chiefly Church comedies commenced composition death display distinguished divine dramatic dramatists Edinburgh Edinburgh Review elegant eminent England English language English poetry entitled Ephraim Chambers essays excellent fancy feeling fiction genius George George II Henry Henry VIII History of Scotland human humour JAMES JOHN kind latter learning less lished literary literature lively manner merit mind miscellaneous moral moral plays native nature notice novel octavo original period persons philosophical pieces plays poem poet poetical poetry political Pope popular possessed principles produced prose published racter rank reader reign religious remarkable reputation respecting Roman satirical Scotland Scottish sentiment sermons Sir Walter Scott specimen style success talent taste THOMAS thou thought tion tragedy United verse versification volumes Whig WILLIAM writers written wrote
Popular passages
Page 139 - A stranger yet to pain! I feel the gales that from ye blow A momentary bliss bestow, As waving fresh their gladsome wing My weary soul they seem to soothe, And, redolent of joy and youth, To breathe a second spring.
Page 31 - No longer mourn for me when I am dead, Than you shall hear the surly sullen bell Give warning to the world that I am fled From this vile world, with vilest worms to dwell : Nay, if you read this line, remember not The hand that writ it ; for I love you so, That I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot, If thinking on me then should make you woe.
Page 140 - The unfeeling for his own. Yet, ah ! why should they know their fate, Since sorrow never comes too late, And happiness too swiftly flies? Thought would destroy their paradise. No more ; — where ignorance is bliss, 'Tis folly to be wise.
Page 206 - Roll on, thou deep and dark blue Ocean — roll! Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain; Man marks the earth with ruin— his control Stops with the shore ; — upon the watery plain The wrecks are all thy deed...
Page 36 - You haste away so soon; As yet the early-rising Sun Has not attain'd his noon. Stay, stay Until the hasting day Has run But to the even-song; And, having pray'd together, we Will go with you along. We have short time to stay, as you, We have as short a Spring ; As quick a growth to meet decay As you, or any thing. We die, As your hours do, and dry Away Like to the Summer's rain ; Or as the pearls of morning's dew, Ne'er to be found again.
Page 107 - And screams of horror rend th' affrighted skies. Not louder shrieks to pitying heaven are cast, When husbands or when lapdogs breathe their last ; Or when rich China vessels, fall'n from high, In glitt'ring dust and painted fragments lie ! " Let wreaths of triumph now my temples twine...
Page 115 - The stars shall fade away, the sun himself Grow dim with age, and Nature sink in years, But thou shalt flourish in immortal youth, Unhurt amidst the war of elements, The wreck of matter, and the crush of worlds.
Page 108 - For others good, or melt at others woe. What can atone (oh ever-injur'd shade !) Thy fate unpity'd, and thy rites unpaid ? No friend's complaint, no kind domestic tear Pleas'd thy pale ghost, or grac'd thy mournful bier : By foreign hands thy dying eyes were clos'd, By foreign hands thy decent limbs compos'd, By foreign hands thy humble grave adorn'd, By strangers honour'd, and by strangers mourn'd! What tho' no friends in sable weeds appear.
Page 82 - A man so various that he seemed to be Not one, but all mankind's epitome : Stiff in opinions, always in the wrong, Was everything by starts and nothing long; But in the course of one revolving moon Was chymist, fiddler, statesman, and buffoon ; Then all for women, painting, rhyming, drinking, Besides ten thousand freaks that died in thinking.
Page 77 - He'd prove a buzzard is no fowl, And that a lord may be an owl ; A calf an alderman, a goose a justice, And rooks committee-men and trustees.