The Works of the British Poets: With Prefaces, Biographical and Critical ... |
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الصفحة 4
After the death of Sir Francis Wooley , he took a house for his wife and children at
Mitcham in Surrey , and lodgings for himself near Whitehall , where he was much
visited and caressed by the nobility , foreign ministers , and other persons of ...
After the death of Sir Francis Wooley , he took a house for his wife and children at
Mitcham in Surrey , and lodgings for himself near Whitehall , where he was much
visited and caressed by the nobility , foreign ministers , and other persons of ...
الصفحة 21
Have th ” remembrance of past joys for relief The itchy lecher , and self - tickling
proud , Repair me now , for now mine end doth halte ; I rua to death , and death
meets me as fast , Of coming ills . To ( poor ) me is allow'd And all my pleasures ...
Have th ” remembrance of past joys for relief The itchy lecher , and self - tickling
proud , Repair me now , for now mine end doth halte ; I rua to death , and death
meets me as fast , Of coming ills . To ( poor ) me is allow'd And all my pleasures ...
الصفحة 22
Die not , poor Death ! nor yet canst thou kill me . Then as my soul to heav'n , her
first seat , takes From rest and sleep , which but thy picture be , flight Much
pleasure , then , from thee much more mu And earth - borne body in the earth
shall ...
Die not , poor Death ! nor yet canst thou kill me . Then as my soul to heav'n , her
first seat , takes From rest and sleep , which but thy picture be , flight Much
pleasure , then , from thee much more mu And earth - borne body in the earth
shall ...
الصفحة 38
... At least remember I forbade it thee ; Which my materials be , Not that I shall
repair my unthrifty waste ( But near worn out by Love's fecurity ) Cf breath and
blood upon thy lighs and tears , She , to niy loss , doh by her death repair ; By
being to ...
... At least remember I forbade it thee ; Which my materials be , Not that I shall
repair my unthrifty waste ( But near worn out by Love's fecurity ) Cf breath and
blood upon thy lighs and tears , She , to niy loss , doh by her death repair ; By
being to ...
الصفحة 42
May then fin's fleep , and death foon from me pass , Of God dew'd on me in the
sacrament ? That , wak'd from both , I again sisen may Who can deny me power
and liberty Salute the last and everlasting day . To stretch mine arms , and mine ...
May then fin's fleep , and death foon from me pass , Of God dew'd on me in the
sacrament ? That , wak'd from both , I again sisen may Who can deny me power
and liberty Salute the last and everlasting day . To stretch mine arms , and mine ...
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arms bear beauty beſt better blood body bring brought cauſe comes courſe court crown dead death doth earth eyes face fair fall fame fear fight fire firſt force foul friends give glory grace grief grow hand hate hath head hear heart heav'n himſelf hold honour hope keep king land laſt late learned leave leſs light live look Lord mind moſt move muſe muſt nature never night once pain plain play poor pow'r praiſe prince reſt round ſame ſay ſee ſeem ſet ſhall ſhe ſhould ſince ſome ſoul ſpring ſtand ſtate ſtay ſtill ſuch ſweet tears tell thee theſe thine things thoſe thou thought true turn unto virtue whole whoſe worth wound wrong
مقاطع مشهورة
الصفحة 541 - Drink to me only with thine eyes, And I will pledge with mine; Or leave a kiss but in the cup And I'll not look for wine. The thirst that from the soul doth rise Doth ask a drink divine; But might I of Jove's nectar sup, I would not change for thine.
الصفحة 540 - While we can, the sports of love. Time will not be ours for ever, He, at length, our good will sever; Spend not then his gifts in vain. Suns that set may rise again: But if once we lose this light, 'Tis with us perpetual night.
الصفحة 594 - IF I freely may discover What would please me in my lover, I would have her fair and witty, Savouring more of court than city ; A little proud, but full of pity ; Light and humorous in her toying ; Oft...
الصفحة 537 - The applause, delight, the wonder of our stage! My Shakespeare, rise; I will not lodge thee by Chaucer, or Spenser, or bid Beaumont lie A little further to make thee a room; Thou art a monument, without a tomb, And art alive still, while thy book doth live And we have wits to read and praise to give.
الصفحة 35 - When my grave is broke up again Some second guest to entertain (For graves have learned that womanhead To be to more than one a bed), And he that digs it spies A bracelet of bright hair about the bone...
الصفحة 547 - No, Both wills were in one stature ; And as that wisdom had decreed, The Word was now made Flesh indeed, And took on him our nature. What comfort by Him do we win, Who made Himself the price of sin, To make us heirs of Glory ! To see this babe, all innocence, A martyr born in our defence : Can man forget this...
الصفحة 594 - Though I am young and cannot tell Either what Death or Love is well, Yet, I have heard they both bear darts, And both do aim at human hearts : And then again, I have been told, Love wounds with heat, as Death with cold ; So that I fear they do but bring Extremes to touch, and mean one thing. As in a ruin we it call One thing to be blown up or fall ; Or to our end, like way may have By...
الصفحة 32 - To move, but doth, if th' other do. And though it in the centre sit, Yet, when the other far doth roam, It leans, and hearkens after it, And grows erect, as that comes home. Such wilt thou be to me, who must, Like th' other foot, obliquely run; Thy firmness makes my circle just, And makes me end where I begun.
الصفحة 25 - Must to thy motions lovers' seasons run? Saucy pedantic wretch, go chide Late schoolboys and sour prentices; Go tell court-huntsmen that the king will ride, Call country ants to harvest offices; Love, all alike, no season knows nor clime, Nor hours, days, months, which are the rags of time.
الصفحة 522 - Seven years thou wert lent to me, and I thee pay, Exacted by thy fate, on the just day. O, could I lose all father, now! For why Will man lament the state he should envy? To have so soon 'scaped world's and flesh's rage, And, if no other misery, yet age! Rest in soft peace; and, asked, say: Here doth lie Ben Jonson his best piece of poetry...