Canterbury tales [partly in the original, partly in mod. Engl. prose] by J. Saunders

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John Saunders

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Page 16 - Or call up him that left half told The story of Cambuscan bold, Of Camball, and of Algarsife, And who had Canace to wife, That own'd the virtuous ring and glass, And of the wondrous horse of brass, On which the Tartar king did ride...
Page 253 - I have seen not our own imaginative poet cause to fear that future ages will desire to summon him from his place of rest, as Milton longed ' To call up him who left half told The story of Cambuscan bold.
Page 10 - Embrouded was he, as it were a mede Al ful of fresshe floures, whyte and rede. 90 Singinge he was, or floytinge, al the day ; He was as fresh as is the month of May.
Page 72 - What is this world? what asketh men to have? Now with his love, now in his colde grave Allone, with-outen any companye.
Page 95 - Where neither beast, nor human kind repair; The fowl, that scent afar, the borders fly, And shun the bitter blast, and wheel about the sky. A cake of scurf lies baking on the ground, And prickly stubs, instead of trees, are found; Or woods, with knots and knares...
Page 213 - This world is nat so strong, it is no nay, As it hath been in olde tymes yore, 1 140 And herkneth what this auctour seith therfore.
Page 109 - Obscure in rushes of the liquid lake. The geese fly o'er the barn ; the bees in arms, Drive headlong from their waxen cells in swarms. Jack Straw at London-stone, with all his rout, Struck not the city with so loud a shout ; Not when with English hate they did pursue A Frenchman, or an unbelieving Jew; Not when the welkin rung with ' one and all ;' And echoes bounded back from Fox's hall ; Earth seemed to sink beneath, and heaven above to fall.
Page 88 - I n'ot which was the finer of them two) Ere it was day, as she was wont to do, She was arisen and all ready dight, For May will have no sluggardy a-night : The season pricketh every gentle heart, And maketh him out of his sleep to start, And saith " Arise, and do thine observance.
Page 93 - He roar'd, he beat his breast, he tore his hair. Dry sorrow in his stupid eyes appears, For, wanting nourishment, he wanted tears : His eye-balls in their hollow sockets sink, Bereft of sleep he loathes his meat and drink.
Page 89 - To do the observance due to sprightly May; .For sprightly May commands our youth to keep The vigils of her night, and breaks their sluggard sleep; Each gentle breast with kindly warmth she moves ; Inspires new flames, revives extinguished loves.

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