The History of English Poetry, from the Eleventh to the Seventeenth Century

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Ward, Lock, 1870 - English poetry - 1032 pages

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Page 626 - In the latter end of the same kinges [Henry] raigne, sprongc up a new company of courtly makers, of whom sir Thomas Wyat the elder and Henry earle of Surrey were the two CHIEFTAINES...
Page 698 - When, chill'd by adverse snows and beating rain, We tread with weary steps the longsome plain ; When with hard toil we seek our evening food, Berries and acorns, from the neighbouring wood ; And find among the cliffs no other house, But the thin covert of some gather'd boughs ; Wilt thou not then...
Page 189 - Numbers of all diseased, all maladies Of ghastly spasm, or racking torture, qualms Of heart-sick agony; all feverous kinds, Convulsions, epilepsies, fierce catarrhs, Intestine stone and ulcer, colic pangs, Demoniac frenzy, moping melancholy, And moon-struck madness, pining atrophy, Marasmus, and wide-wasting pestilence, Dropsies, and asthmas, and joint-racking rheums.
Page 189 - Dire was the tossing, deep the groans : Despair Tended the sick, busiest from couch to couch ; And over them triumphant Death his dart Shook, but delay'd to strike, though oft invoked With vows, as their chief good, and final hope.
Page 574 - Weep with me, all you that read This little story ; And know, for whom a tear you shed Death's self is sorry. 'Twas a child that so did thrive In grace and feature, As Heaven and Nature seemed to strive Which owned the creature.
Page 758 - There heard we him with broken and hollow plaint Rue with himself his end approaching fast, And all for nought his wretched mind torment With sweet remembrance of his pleasures past, And fresh delights of lusty youth forewaste;.
Page 631 - Then shalt thou know beauty but lent, And wish and want as I have done. Now cease, my lute, this is the last 'Labour, that thou and I shall waste ; And ended is that we begun : Now is this song both sung and past ; My lute, be still, for I have done.
Page 759 - With visage grim, stern look, and blackly hued : In his right hand a naked sword he had, That to the hilts was all with blood imbrued; And in his left (that kings and kingdoms rued) Famine and fire he held, and therewithal He razed towns, and threw down towers and all...
Page 348 - The Tragedies gathered by Jhon Bochas of all such Princes as fell from theyr Estates throughe the Mutability of Fortune since the creation of...
Page 781 - Now is the winter of our discontent Made glorious summer by this sun of York ; And all the clouds that lour'd upon our house In the deep bosom of the ocean buried. Now are our brows bound with victorious wreaths ; Our bruised arms hung up for monuments ; Our stern alarums changed to merry meetings, Our dreadful marches to delightful measures.

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