Gwyddoniadur Cymreig

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Page 130 - Sweet flower ! for by that name at last, When all my reveries are past, I call thee, and to that cleave fast, Sweet silent creature ! That breath'st with me in sun and air, Do thou, as thou art wont, repair My heart with gladness, and a share Of thy meek nature ! TO THE SAME FLOWER.
Page 130 - I see thee glittering from afar ; — And then thou art a pretty Star ; Not quite so fair as many are In heaven above thee ! Yet like a star, with glittering crest, Self-poised in air thou seem'st to rest...
Page 129 - Alas, poor Yorick ! I knew him, Horatio : a fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy : he hath borne me on his back a thousand times ; and now how abhorred in my imagination it is ! my gorge rises at it. Here hung those lips that I have kissed I know not how oft.
Page 131 - Stop and consider ! life is but a day ; A fragile dewdrop on its perilous way From a tree's summit ; a poor Indian's sleep While his boat hastens to the monstrous steep Of Montmorenci. Why so sad a moan ? Life is the rose's hope while yet unblown ; The reading of an ever-changing tale ; The light uplifting of a maiden's veil ; A pigeon tumbling in clear summer air ; A laughing schoolboy, without grief or care, Riding the springy branches of an elm.
Page 124 - The use of this feigned history hath been to give some shadow of satisfaction to the mind of man in those points wherein the nature of things doth deny it, the world being in proportion inferior to the soul ; by reason whereof there is, agreeable to the spirit of man, a more ample greatness, a more exact goodness, and a more absolute variety, than can be found in the nature of things.
Page 128 - The idea of her life shall sweetly creep Into his study of imagination...
Page 130 - A nun demure, of lowly port; Or sprightly maiden, of Love's court, In thy simplicity the sport Of all temptations ; A queen in crown of rubies drest; A starveling in a scanty vest; Are all, as seems to suit thee best, Thy appellations.
Page 129 - Dis's waggon! daffodils That come before the swallow dares, and take The winds of March with beauty; violets dim, But sweeter than the lids of Juno's eyes Or Cytherea's breath...
Page 129 - With that she dashed her on the lips So dyed double red ; Hard was the heart that gave the blow, Soft were those lips that bled.
Page 128 - Dower'd with the hate of hate, the scorn of scorn, The love of love. He saw thro' life and death, thro' good and ill, He saw thro

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