Specimens of the Early English Poets: To which is Prefixed an Historical Sketch of the Rise and Progress of the English Poetry and Language, Volume 1Bulmer, 1803 - 458 pages |
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Page 95
... song both sung and past ; My lute be still , for I have done ! That each thing is hurt of itself . WHY fearest thou thy outward foe , When thou thyself thy harm dost feed ? Of grief or hurt , of pain or wo , UNCERTAIN AUTHORS . 95.
... song both sung and past ; My lute be still , for I have done ! That each thing is hurt of itself . WHY fearest thou thy outward foe , When thou thyself thy harm dost feed ? Of grief or hurt , of pain or wo , UNCERTAIN AUTHORS . 95.
Page 97
... song ! The lover in despair lamenteth his case . ADIEU desert , how art thou spent ! Ah dropping tears , how do ye waste ! Ah scalding sighs , how be ye spent , To prick them forth that will not haste ! 1 I do not understand this ...
... song ! The lover in despair lamenteth his case . ADIEU desert , how art thou spent ! Ah dropping tears , how do ye waste ! Ah scalding sighs , how be ye spent , To prick them forth that will not haste ! 1 I do not understand this ...
Page 103
... , as Warton suggests , a recol- lected passage from this poem . Vide Hist . E. Poet.'III . 56. ] To this my song give ear who list , And mine intent judge as ye will ; The time is come that I have miss'd The thing UNCERTAIN AUTHORS . 103.
... , as Warton suggests , a recol- lected passage from this poem . Vide Hist . E. Poet.'III . 56. ] To this my song give ear who list , And mine intent judge as ye will ; The time is come that I have miss'd The thing UNCERTAIN AUTHORS . 103.
Page 118
... your wicked sin ; But rather seek , as ye are bound , To know what case that ye are in . And though this song do sin confute , And sharply wickedness rebuke ; — Blame not my lute ! If my lute blame the covetise , The gluttons , [ 118 ]
... your wicked sin ; But rather seek , as ye are bound , To know what case that ye are in . And though this song do sin confute , And sharply wickedness rebuke ; — Blame not my lute ! If my lute blame the covetise , The gluttons , [ 118 ]
Page 141
... song unto her little brat , Much matter utter'd she of weight in place whereas 1 she sat ; So ed . 1580. - Ed.1576 , " sore . " 1576 , " rest . ” So ed.1580.-Ed. 3 So ed . 1580. - Ed.1576 , " is the renewing . " And proved plain , there ...
... song unto her little brat , Much matter utter'd she of weight in place whereas 1 she sat ; So ed . 1580. - Ed.1576 , " sore . " 1576 , " rest . ” So ed.1580.-Ed. 3 So ed . 1580. - Ed.1576 , " is the renewing . " And proved plain , there ...
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Common terms and phrases
Astrophel and Stella beauty bird bliss born breast Chaucer cheer Christ's College court Cupid dainty dame dear death delight disdain doth E'en earl England's Helicon English eyes fair faith farewell favour fear flowers following specimens Gloss Gorboduc grace green Greensleeves grief hairs Harpalus hath heart heaven Henry VIII honour king kiss lady live look lord lov'd Love's lover lullaby lute mind mourning Muse never night nought Oxford pain pity poems poetical poetry poets praise prep printed pron Puttenham Queen reign scorn shepherd sighs sight sing Sir Philip Sidney Sir Thomas Wyatt Sith song SONNET soul summer queen sweet tears tell thee thine thing thou thought translated tree unto verse Vide Sibbald Warton wight wind wine Wood words worth marriage wouldest not love youth
Popular passages
Page 349 - Come away, come away, death, And in sad cypress let me be laid; Fly away, fly away, breath; I am slain by a fair cruel maid. My shroud of white, stuck all with yew, O prepare it. My part of death, no one so true Did share it.
Page 389 - 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. I sent thee late a rosy wreath, Not so much honouring thee As giving it a hope that there It could not withered be; But thou thereon didst only breathe And sent'st it back to me; Since when it grows, and smells, I swear, Not of itself but thee!
Page 352 - Being your slave, what should I do but tend Upon the hours and times of your desire? I have no precious time at all to spend, Nor services to do, till you require.
Page 351 - Fear no more the frown o' the great; Thou art past the tyrant's stroke; Care no more to clothe and eat; To thee the reed is as the oak : The sceptre, learning, physic, must All follow this, and come to dust.
Page 334 - Tell them that brave it most, They beg for more by spending, Who, in their greatest cost, Seek nothing but commending: And if they make reply Then give them all the lie.
Page 346 - Now the wasted brands do glow, Whilst the screech-owl, screeching loud, Puts the wretch that lies in woe In remembrance of a shroud. Now it is the time of night ' That the graves, all gaping wide, Every one lets forth his sprite, In the church-way paths to glide...
Page 220 - Time drives the flocks from field to fold, When Rivers rage, and Rocks grow cold, And Philomel becometh dumb, The rest complains of cares to come. The flowers do fade, and wanton fields, To wayward winter reckoning yields, A honey tongue, a heart of gall, Is fancy's spring, but sorrow's fall.
Page 388 - Come, my Celia, let us prove, While we can, the sports of love, Time will not be ours for ever, He, at length, our good will sever; Spend not then his gifts in vain; Suns, that set, may rise again ; . But if once we lose this light, 'Tis with us perpetual night.
Page 243 - CUPID and my Campaspe played At cards for kisses — Cupid paid; He stakes his quiver, bow and arrows, His mother's doves, and team of sparrows ; Loses them too; then down he throws The coral of his lip, the rose Growing on's cheek (but none knows how), With these, the crystal of his brow, And then the dimple of his chin ; All these did my Campaspe win. At last he set her both his eyes, She won, and Cupid blind did rise. O Love! has she done this to thee? What shall, alas! become of me?* THE SONGS...
Page 348 - Tell me where is fancy bred, Or in the heart or in the head ? How begot, how nourished? Reply, reply. It is engender'd in the eyes, With gazing fed ; and fancy dies In the cradle where it lies. Let us all ring fancy's knell : I'll begin it, — Ding, dong, bell ALL.