Outlines of English Literature

الغلاف الأمامي
C. Scribner's Sons, 1893 - 248 من الصفحات
 

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الصفحة 119 - TELL ME NOT, sweet, I am unkind, That from the nunnery Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind, To war and arms I fly. True, a new mistress now I chase, The first foe in the field; And with a stronger faith embrace A sword, a horse, a shield. Yet this inconstancy is such As you too shall adore; I could not love thee, dear, so much, Loved I not honor more.
الصفحة 73 - Read not to contradict and confute, nor to believe and take for granted, nor to find talk and discourse, but to weigh and consider. Some books are to be tasted, others to be swallowed, and some few to be chewed and digested...
الصفحة 151 - Whose buzz the witty and the fair annoys, Yet wit ne'er tastes, and beauty ne'er enjoys : So well-bred spaniels civilly delight In mumbling of the game they dare not bite.
الصفحة 71 - ... with a tale, forsooth, he cometh unto you, with a tale which holdeth children from play, and old men from the chimney corner ; and, pretending no more, doth intend the winning of the mind from wickedness to virtue...
الصفحة 118 - Her lips were red, and one was thin, Compar'd to that was next her chin (Some bee had stung it newly ; ) But, Dick, her eyes so guard her face, I durst no more upon them gaze Than on the sun in July.
الصفحة 58 - And next in order sad Old Age we found, His beard all hoar, his eyes hollow and blind, With drooping cheer still poring on the ground, As on the place where nature him...
الصفحة 127 - That fires the length of Ophiuchus huge In the arctic sky, and from his horrid hair Shakes pestilence and war.
الصفحة 166 - Among the crooked lanes, on every hedge, The glowworm lights his gem; and through the dark, A moving radiance twinkles.
الصفحة 66 - Open the temple gates unto my love, Open them wide that she may enter in...
الصفحة 57 - BLAME not my Lute ! for he must sound Of this or that as liketh me ; For lack of wit the Lute is bound To give such tunes as pleaseth me ; Though my songs be somewhat strange, And speak such words as touch thy change, Blame not my Lute ! My Lute ! alas ! doth not offend, Though that perforce he must agree To sound such tunes as I intend, To sing to them that heareth me ; Then though my songs be somewhat plain, And toucheth some that use to feign, Blame not my Lute...

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