Ancient Ballads : Selected from Percy's Collection: With Explanatory Notes, Taken from Different Authors, for the Use and Entertainment of Young Persons

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Vernor, 1807 - 211 стор.

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Сторінка 75 - For twelve month and a day, To lend to him an hundred crownes : And he for it would pay Whatsoever he would demand of him. And pledges he should have. ' No,' (quoth the Jew with flearing lookes) ' Sir, aske what you will have.
Сторінка 147 - O these are hard questions for my shallow wit, Nor I cannot answer your grace as yet : But if you will give me but three weeks' space, I'll do my endeavour to answer your grace." " Now three weeks' space to thee will I give, And that is the longest time thou hast to live ; For if thou dost not answer my questions three, Thy lands and thy livings are forfeit to me.
Сторінка 194 - The spear against the gyant glanc'd, And caus'd the blood to burst. Mad and outrageous with the pain, He whirl'd his mace of steel : The very wind of such a blow $$ Had made the champion reel. It haply mist ; and now the knight His glittering sword display'd, And riding round with whirlwind speed Oft made him feel the blade.
Сторінка 147 - O, these are hard questions for my shallow witt, Nor I cannot answer your grace as yet : But if you will give me but three weekes space, He do my endeavour to answer your grace. Now three weeks...
Сторінка 64 - In hope some comfort for to winne; But bare and lothly were the walles ; " Here's sorry cheare," quo' the heire of Linne* The little windowe, dim and darke, Was hung with ivy, brere, and yewe...
Сторінка 83 - Content I live, this is my stay; I seek no more than may suffice; I press to bear no haughty sway; Look, what I lack my mind supplies. Lo, thus I triumph like a king, Content with that my mind doth bring.
Сторінка 84 - They are but poor, though much they have, And I am rich with little store. They poor, I rich ; they beg, I give ; They lack, I lend : they pine, I live.
Сторінка 182 - gins to decke the fields With colours fresh and fine, Then holy clerkes their mattins sing To good Saint Valentine ! The king of France that morning fair He would a hunting ride : To Artois forest prancing forth In all his princelye pride. To grace his sports a courtly train Of gallant peers attend ; And with their loud and cheerful cryes The hills and valleys rend. Through the deep forest swift they pass, Through woods and thickets wild...
Сторінка 148 - Now cheare up, sire abbot ; did you never hear yet, That a fool he may learn a wise man witt ? Lend me horse, and serving men, and your apparel, And I'll ride to London to answer your quarrel.
Сторінка 84 - And hastie clymbers soonest fall : I see that such as sit aloft Mishap doth threaten most of all : These get with toile, and keep with feare : Such cares my mind could never beare.

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