British Anthologies, Bind 5 |
Fra bogen
Side 128
JOAN takes her neat - rubbed pail , and now She trips to milk the sand - red cow ; Where , for some sturdy football Swain , JOAN strokes a syllabub , or twain ! The fields and gardens are beset With tulip , crocus , violet !
JOAN takes her neat - rubbed pail , and now She trips to milk the sand - red cow ; Where , for some sturdy football Swain , JOAN strokes a syllabub , or twain ! The fields and gardens are beset With tulip , crocus , violet !
Hvad folk siger - Skriv en anmeldelse
Vi har ikke fundet nogen anmeldelser de normale steder.
Andre udgaver - Se alle
Almindelige termer og sætninger
appear Beauty Blue breath bright bring cast cheeks Comedies Court cross Crown dance death delight desire dost doth drink Earth Edition eyes face fair fall false fate fear fire flame flowers give gone grace grave grief grow hand happy hast hate hath hear heart Heaven HERBERT hopes JONSON joys keep kill King kiss Lady late leave light Lips live look LORD Love's Lovers morn move Muse ne'er needs never night Notes once play pleasure Poems poor rest rose seen shalt sigh sing smile Song soul Spring sure sweet tears tell thee thine things thou thought took true turn unto Virtue W. W. SKEAT wind World young
Populære passager
Side 137 - But peaceful was the night Wherein the Prince of Light His reign of peace upon the earth began...
Side 283 - Why so pale and wan, fond lover? Prithee, why so pale? Will, when looking well can't move her, Looking ill prevail? Prithee, why so pale? Why so dull and mute, young sinner? Prithee, why so mute? Will, when speaking well can't win her, Saying nothing do't? Prithee, why so mute? Quit, quit, for shame, this will not move: This cannot take her. If of herself she will not love, Nothing can make her: The devil take her!
Side 25 - Triumph, my Britain, thou hast one to show, To whom all scenes of Europe homage owe. He was not of an age, but for all time! And all the Muses still were in their prime When like Apollo he came forth to warm Our ears, or like a Mercury to charm! Nature herself was proud of his designs, And joyed to wear the dressing of his lines, Which were so richly spun and woven so fit As, since, she will vouchsafe no other wit.
Side 182 - SWEET Day, so cool, so calm, so bright, The bridal of the earth and sky, 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.
Side 137 - But He, her fears to cease, Sent down the meek-eyed Peace; She, crowned with olive green, came softly sliding Down through the turning sphere, His ready harbinger, With turtle wing the amorous clouds dividing; And waving wide her myrtle wand, She strikes a universal peace through sea and land.
Side 209 - ASK me no more where Jove bestows, When June is past, the fading rose; For in your beauty's orient deep These flowers, as in their causes, sleep. Ask me no more whither do stray The golden atoms of the day; For in pure love heaven did prepare Those powders to enrich your hair.
Side 141 - Yea Truth and Justice then Will down return to men, Orbed in a rainbow ; and like glories wearing Mercy will sit between, Throned in celestial sheen, With radiant feet the tissued clouds down steering ; And Heaven, as at some festival, Will open wide the gates of her high palace hall.
Side 145 - Sweet echo, sweetest nymph, that liv'st unseen Within thy airy shell By slow Meander's margent green, And in the violet-embroidered vale Where the love-lorn nightingale Nightly to thee her sad song mourneth well: Canst thou not tell me of a gentle pair That likest thy Narcissus are? O, if thou have Hid them in some flowery cave, Tell me but where, Sweet Queen of Parley, Daughter of the Sphere! So may'st thou be translated to the skies, And give resounding grace to all Heaven's harmonies!
Side 133 - WHAT needs my Shakespeare for his honoured bones The labour of an age in piled stones ? Or that his hallowed reliques should be hid Under a star-ypointing pyramid ? Dear son of memory, great heir of fame, What need'st thou such weak witness of thy name ? Thou in our wonder and astonishment Hast built thyself a livelong monument.
Side 13 - Or the nard in the fire ? Or have tasted the bag of the bee ? O so white, O so soft, O so sweet is she!
Bibliografiske oplysninger
| Titel | British Anthologies, Bind 5 British Anthologies, Edward Arber |
| Redaktør | Edward Arber |
| Udgiver | Henry Frowde, 1899 |
| Oprindeligt fra | University of Michigan |
| Digitaliseret | 1. mar 2006 |
| Eksporter henvisning | BiBTeX EndNote RefMan |