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Сторінка 112 - The dew shall weep thy fall to-night, — For thou must die. Sweet Rose, whose hue, angry and brave, Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye, Thy root is ever in its grave, — And thou must die.
Сторінка 114 - ... hear the birds sing, and possess ourselves in as much quietness as these silent silver streams, which we now see glide so quietly by us. Indeed, my good scholar, we may say of angling as Dr. Boteler said of strawberries, " Doubtless God could have made a better berry, but doubtless God never did...
Сторінка 88 - 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. Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses, Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies, Soon break...
Сторінка 86 - Her voice was good, and the ditty fitted for it: it was that smooth song which was made by Kit Marlow now at least fifty years ago. And the milk-maid's mother sung an answer to it which was made by Sir Walter Raleigh in his younger days. They were oldfashioned poetry, but choicely good; I think much better than the strong lines which are now in fashion in this critical age.
Сторінка 236 - Dear Solitude, the soul's best friend, That man acquainted with himself dost make, And all his Maker's wonders to intend. With thee I here converse at will, And would be -glad to do so still, For it is thou alone that keep'st the soul awake.
Сторінка 87 - Slippers, lined choicely for the cold, With buckles of the purest gold. A belt of straw, and ivy buds, With coral clasps, and amber studs; And if these pleasures may thee move, Come live with me, and be my love.
Сторінка 46 - But the nightingale,' another of my airy creatures, breathes such sweet loud music, out of her little instrumental throat, that it might make mankind to think miracles are not ceased.
Сторінка 85 - And the birds in the adjoining grove seemed to have a friendly contention with an echo, whose dead voice seemed to live in a hollow tree, near to the brow of that primrose hill.
Сторінка 217 - In the loose rhymes of every poetaster — Could I be more than any man that lives, Great, fair, rich, wise, all in superlatives; Yet I more freely would these gifts resign, Than ever fortune would have made them mine ; And hold one minute of this holy leisure Beyond the riches of this empty pleasure.
Сторінка 88 - A honey tongue, a heart of gall, Is fancy's spring, but sorrow's fall. Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses, Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies, Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten,— In folly ripe, in reason rotten. Thy belt of straw and ivy buds, Thy coral clasps and amber studs,— All these in me no means can move To come to thee and be thy love.