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Сторінка 216 - No longer mourn for me when I am dead Than you shall hear the surly sullen bell Give warning to the world that I am fled From this vile world, with vilest worms to dwell : Nay, if you read this line, remember not The hand that writ it ; for I love you so That I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot, If thinking on me then should make you woe.
Сторінка 153 - Was fashion'd to much honour. From his cradle He was a scholar, and a ripe and good one ; Exceeding wise, fair spoken, and persuading : Lofty and sour to them that loved him not ; But, to those men that sought him, sweet as summer...
Сторінка 110 - A stranger yet to pain! I feel the gales, that from ye blow, A momentary bliss bestow, As waving fresh their gladsome wing, My weary soul they seem to soothe, And, redolent of joy and youth, To breathe a second spring.
Сторінка 26 - FAR in a wild, unknown to public view, From youth to age a reverend hermit grew ; The moss his bed, the cave his humble cell, His food the fruits, his drink the crystal well : Remote from man, with God he pass'd the days, Prayer all his business, all his pleasure praise.
Сторінка 109 - Thy Forests, Windsor! and thy green Retreats, At once the Monarch's and the Muse's Seats, Invite my Lays. Be present, Sylvan Maids! Unlock your Springs, and open all your Shades.
Сторінка 109 - YE DISTANT spires, ye antique towers, That crown the watery glade. Where grateful Science still adores Her Henry's holy shade; And ye, that from the stately brow Of Windsor's heights th...
Сторінка 112 - There is an old tale goes, that Herne the hunter, Sometime a keeper here in Windsor forest, Doth all the winter time, at still midnight, Walk round about an oak, with great ragg'd horns; And there he blasts the tree, and takes the cattle ; And makes milch-kine yield blood, and shakes a chain In a most hideous and dreadful manner...
Сторінка 205 - Ah, what a life were this ! how sweet ! how lovely ! Gives not the hawthorn bush a sweeter shade To shepherds, looking on their silly sheep, Than doth a rich embroider'd canopy To kings, that fear their subjects
Сторінка 217 - Lest the wise world should look into your moan And mock you with me after I am gone.
Сторінка 110 - Henry's holy shade; And ye, that from the stately brow Of Windsor's heights th' expanse below Of grove, of lawn, of mead survey, Whose turf, whose shade, whose flowers among Wanders the hoary Thames along His silver-winding way: Ah happy hills!

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