The English poets, selections, ed. by T.H. Ward. Chaucer to DonneThomas Humphry Ward 1880 |
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Resultats 1 - 5 de 29.
Pàgina 28
... hast werreyed 2 on every syde , Men myght a book make of it lyk a stórie ! What nede is thee to seke on me victórie , Syn I am thyn , and holly at thi wille ? What joye hastow thyn owën folk to spille ? ' Wel hastow , lord , ywroke on ...
... hast werreyed 2 on every syde , Men myght a book make of it lyk a stórie ! What nede is thee to seke on me victórie , Syn I am thyn , and holly at thi wille ? What joye hastow thyn owën folk to spille ? ' Wel hastow , lord , ywroke on ...
Pàgina 40
... Hast served so ententyfly2 Hys blyndë nevew Cupido , And fairë Venus also , Withoutë guerdoun ever yit , And nevertheles hast set thy wit , ( Although [ that ] in thy hede ful lyt is ) To make songës , bokes , and dytees , In ryme , or ...
... Hast served so ententyfly2 Hys blyndë nevew Cupido , And fairë Venus also , Withoutë guerdoun ever yit , And nevertheles hast set thy wit , ( Although [ that ] in thy hede ful lyt is ) To make songës , bokes , and dytees , In ryme , or ...
Pàgina 41
... hast no tydynges Of Lovës folke , yf they be glade , Ne of noght ellës that God made ; And noght oonly fro fer contree , That ther no tydyng cometh to thee , Not of thy verray neyghëbores , That dwellen almost at thy dores , Thou herest ...
... hast no tydynges Of Lovës folke , yf they be glade , Ne of noght ellës that God made ; And noght oonly fro fer contree , That ther no tydyng cometh to thee , Not of thy verray neyghëbores , That dwellen almost at thy dores , Thou herest ...
Pàgina 42
Thomas Humphry Ward. In som recompensacioun Of labour and devocioun That thou hast had , loo ! causëles , To Cupido the rechchëles . PROLOGUE TO THE LEGENDE OF GOODE WOMEN . [ The poet loves books , but loves the daisy more . ] And as ...
Thomas Humphry Ward. In som recompensacioun Of labour and devocioun That thou hast had , loo ! causëles , To Cupido the rechchëles . PROLOGUE TO THE LEGENDE OF GOODE WOMEN . [ The poet loves books , but loves the daisy more . ] And as ...
Pàgina 46
... hast of love suche peyne , My lady comith , that al this may disteyne . Hero , Dido , Laudomia , alle yfere1 , And Phillis , hangyng for thy Demophoun , And Canace , espied by thy chere2 , Ysiphile betraysed with Jasoun , Maketh of your ...
... hast of love suche peyne , My lady comith , that al this may disteyne . Hero , Dido , Laudomia , alle yfere1 , And Phillis , hangyng for thy Demophoun , And Canace , espied by thy chere2 , Ysiphile betraysed with Jasoun , Maketh of your ...
Continguts
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Altres edicions - Mostra-ho tot
The English Poets, Selections, Ed. by T.H. Ward. Chaucer to Donne Thomas Humphry Ward Previsualització no disponible - 2015 |
Frases i termes més freqüents
Aeneid Astrophel and Stella ballads beauty Caelica Canterbury Tales Chaucer Clerk Saunders Confessio Amantis dead death delight doth drede Edom English eyes Faery Queen fair fayre flour flowers Glasgerion gold grace grene gret grete gude hart hast hath heart heaven herte hire honour king lady live Lord lovers Lydgate Lyoun mede mind mony myght never night nocht nought passion Petrarch poem poet poetical poetry Quhat Quhen quhilk quod quoth rhyme royal rich Robin Robin Hood sall sayd sche scho Scotch seyde shal Sidney Sidney's sight sing song sonnets sorwe Spenser suld sweet swete swich thair thay thee ther thing THOMAS OCCLEVE thou thought thow Timor Mortis conturbat Troylus true truth tyme unto Venus verse whan wight wolde word write wyth
Passatges populars
Pàgina 459 - 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.
Pàgina 449 - Full many a glorious morning have I seen Flatter the mountain-tops with sovereign eye, Kissing with golden face the meadows green, Gilding pale streams with heavenly alchemy; Anon permit the basest clouds to ride With ugly rack on his celestial face, And from the forlorn world his visage hide, Stealing unseen to west with this disgrace.
Pàgina 448 - When in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes, I all alone beweep my outcast state, And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries, And look upon myself, and curse my fate, Wishing me like to one more rich in hope, Featured like him, like him with friends possessed, Desiring this man's art, and that man's scope...
Pàgina 450 - O, how much more doth beauty beauteous seem By that sweet ornament which truth doth give! The rose looks fair, but fairer we it deem For that sweet odour which doth in it live.
Pàgina 485 - IF all the world and love were young, And truth in every shepherd's tongue, These pretty pleasures might me move To live with thee and be thy love.
Pàgina 458 - Hark, hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings, And Phoebus 'gins arise, His steeds to water at those springs On chaliced flowers that lies; And winking Mary-buds begin To ope their golden eyes: With every thing that pretty is, My lady sweet, arise: Arise, arise.
Pàgina 450 - So am I as the rich, whose blessed key Can bring him to his sweet up-locked treasure, The which he will not every hour survey, For blunting the fine point of seldom pleasure. Therefore are feasts so solemn and so rare, Since seldom coming, in the long year set, Like stones of worth they thinly placed are, Or captain* jewels in the carcanet.
Pàgina xiii - THE future of poetry is immense, because in poetry, where it is worthy of its high destinies, our race, as time goes on, will find an ever surer and surer stay. There is not a creed which is not shaken, not an accredited dogma which is not shown to be questionable, not a received tradition which does not threaten to dissolve.
Pàgina 347 - With how sad steps, O Moon, thou climb'st the skies : How silently ; and with how wan a face ! What ! may it be, that even in heavenly place That busy Archer his sharp arrows tries?
Pàgina 423 - Love in my bosom like a bee Doth suck his sweet: Now with his wings he plays with me, Now with his feet. Within mine eyes he makes his nest, His bed amidst my tender breast; My kisses are his daily feast, And yet he robs me of my rest. Ah, wanton, will ye?