The English poets, selections, ed. by T.H. Ward. Chaucer to DonneThomas Humphry Ward 1880 |
Des de l'interior del llibre
Resultats 1 - 5 de 33.
Pàgina xi
... Lover not beloved Lines written in imprisonment at Windsor The Means to attain Happy Life A Praise of his Love An Epitaph on Clere On the Death of Sir Thomas Wyatt GEORGE GASCOIGNE ( 1536 ? -1577 ) The Arraignment of a Lover A Strange ...
... Lover not beloved Lines written in imprisonment at Windsor The Means to attain Happy Life A Praise of his Love An Epitaph on Clere On the Death of Sir Thomas Wyatt GEORGE GASCOIGNE ( 1536 ? -1577 ) The Arraignment of a Lover A Strange ...
Pàgina xiv
... Lover's Lament ( from Twelfth Night ) Ariel's Song ( from The Tempest ) A Sea Dirge ( from The Tempest ) In the Greenwood ( from As You Like It ) Winter ( from Love's Labour's Lost ) . · Song of Autolycus ( from The Winter's Tale ) ...
... Lover's Lament ( from Twelfth Night ) Ariel's Song ( from The Tempest ) A Sea Dirge ( from The Tempest ) In the Greenwood ( from As You Like It ) Winter ( from Love's Labour's Lost ) . · Song of Autolycus ( from The Winter's Tale ) ...
Pàgina 5
... lover so wel kan pleyne That sely Dido rewed on his peyne , And toke him for housbonde , and was his wife For evermor , whil that hem lastë lyfe . ' Chaucer , in fact , is purely medieval in his rendering of antiquity , and among the ...
... lover so wel kan pleyne That sely Dido rewed on his peyne , And toke him for housbonde , and was his wife For evermor , whil that hem lastë lyfe . ' Chaucer , in fact , is purely medieval in his rendering of antiquity , and among the ...
Pàgina 12
... lover ! Ne me ne list this sely womman chyde Ferther than the storie wol devyse ; Hire name , allas ! is published so wyde , That for hire gilte it ought ynough suffise ; And if I mighte excuse her any wyse , For she so sory was for her ...
... lover ! Ne me ne list this sely womman chyde Ferther than the storie wol devyse ; Hire name , allas ! is published so wyde , That for hire gilte it ought ynough suffise ; And if I mighte excuse her any wyse , For she so sory was for her ...
Pàgina 38
... lover shulde chaunge ! ' The turtel seyde , and wex for shame al reed : ' Thoogh that hys lady evermore be straunge , Yet let hym serve hir ever , tyl he be deed . Forsoth , I preysë noght the gooses reed ; For though she deyed , I ...
... lover shulde chaunge ! ' The turtel seyde , and wex for shame al reed : ' Thoogh that hys lady evermore be straunge , Yet let hym serve hir ever , tyl he be deed . Forsoth , I preysë noght the gooses reed ; For though she deyed , I ...
Continguts
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184 | |
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341 | |
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446 | |
461 | |
466 | |
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486 | |
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528 | |
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543 | |
558 | |
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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?