English Pastorals

الغلاف الأمامي
Edmund Kerchever Chambers
Blackie, 1895 - 280 من الصفحات

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الصفحة 93 - Yet nature is made better by no mean But nature makes that mean : so, over that art Which you say adds to nature, is an art That nature makes. You see, sweet maid, we marry A gentler scion to the wildest stock, And make conceive a bark of baser kind By bud of nobler race : this is an art Which does mend nature, change it rather, but The art itself is nature.
الصفحة 195 - That from beneath the seat of Jove doth spring ; Begin, and somewhat loudly sweep the string. Hence with denial vain, and coy excuse ; So may some gentle Muse With lucky words favour my destined urn ; 20 And as he passes turn, And bid fair peace be to my sable shroud.
الصفحة 197 - O fountain Arethuse, and thou honoured flood, Smooth-sliding Mincius, crowned with vocal reeds, That strain I heard was of a higher mood. But now my oat proceeds, And listens to the Herald of the Sea, That came in Neptune's plea.
الصفحة 89 - When daisies pied, and violets blue. And lady-smocks all silver-white, And cuckoo-buds of yellow hue, Do paint the meadows with delight. The cuckoo then, on every tree, Mocks married men ; for thus sings he., Cuckoo; Cuckoo, cuckoo...
الصفحة 72 - Every thing did banish moan, Save the nightingale alone : She, poor bird, as all forlorn, Lean'd her breast up-till a thorn, And there sung the dolefull'st ditty, That to hear it was great pity : 'Fie, fie, fie...
الصفحة 91 - It was a lover and his lass, With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino, That o'er the green corn-field did pass In the spring time, the only pretty ring time, When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding: Sweet lovers love the spring.
الصفحة 194 - Yet once more, O ye laurels, and once more Ye myrtles brown, with ivy never sere, I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude, And with forced fingers rude, Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year. 5 Bitter constraint, and sad occasion dear, Compels me to disturb your season due...
الصفحة 76 - Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses, Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies, Soon break, soon wither — soon forgotten, In folly ripe, in reason rotten. Thy belt of straw and ivy-buds, Thy coral clasps and amber studs, — All these in me no means can move To come to thee and be thy Love.
الصفحة 196 - Lycidas ? For neither were ye playing on the steep, Where your old bards, the famous Druids, lie, Nor on the shaggy top of Mona high, Nor yet where Deva spreads her wizard stream : Ah me ! I fondly dream, Had ye been there...
الصفحة 93 - O Proserpina, For the flowers now, that, frighted, thou let'st fall From Dis's wagon ! 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 ; pale primroses, That die unmarried, ere they can...

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