The Book of Robert Southwell: Priest, Poet, Prisoner

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B. Blackwell, 1926 - 157 pàgines
 

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Pàgina 94 - The fuel justice layeth on, and mercy blows the coals; The metal in this furnace wrought are men's defiled souls: For which, as now on fire I am to work them to their good, So will I melt into a bath to wash them in my blood.
Pàgina 112 - Christs death Sith my life from life is parted: Death come take thy portion. Who survives, when life is murdred, Lives by meere extortion. All that live, and not in God: 5 Couch their life in deaths abod.
Pàgina 126 - Linger'd labours come to nought. Hoist up sail while gale doth last, Tide and wind stay no man's pleasure ; Seek not time when time is past, Sober speed is wisdom's leisure. After-wits are dearly bought, Let thy forewit guide thy thought.
Pàgina 64 - For none of us lives to himself, and no one dies to himself. For if we live, we live to the Lord; and if we die, we die to the Lord. Therefore, whether we live or die, we are the Lord's.
Pàgina 59 - Majesty and before the first day of May, in the thirtysecond year of the reign of Our Lady the Queen aforesaid, made and ordained priest by authority derived and pretended from the See of Rome, not having the fear of God before his eyes, and slighting the laws and statutes of this Realm of England, without any regard to the penalty therein contained, on the 20th day of June, the thirtyfourth year of the reign of Our...
Pàgina 90 - Love's sweetest mark, laud's highest theme, man's most desired light, To love him life, to leave him death, to live in him delight. He mine by gift, I his by debt, thus each to other due. First friend he was, best friend he is, all times will try him true.
Pàgina 79 - Complaint and those other serious poems said to be father Southwell's ; the English whereof, as it is most proper, so the sharpness and light of wit is very rare in them.
Pàgina 101 - Whose trust is found untrue ; If he have held them dear, And cannot cease to moan, Come, let him take his place by me : He shall not rue alone. But if the smallest sweet Be mixed with all his sour; If in the day, the month, the year, He...
Pàgina 146 - My ancestors are turned to clay, And many of my mates are gone ; My youngers daily drop away, And can I think to 'scape alone ? No, no, I know that I must die, And yet my life amend not I.
Pàgina 137 - My conscience is my crown; Contented thoughts my rest; My heart is happy in itself; My bliss is in my breast. Enough, I reckon wealth; A mean, the surest lot; That lies too high for base contempt, Too low for envy's shot. My wishes are but few, All easy to fulfil : I make the limits of my power The bounds unto my will. I have no hopes but one, Which is of heavenly reign : Effects attained, or not desired, All lower hopes refrain.

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