The Poetical Works of Geoffrey Chaucer: To which are Appended Poems Attributed to Chaucer, Band 3

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Houghton, Osgood, 1879
 

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Seite 80 - I feyth and ful credence, And in myn herte have hem in reverence So hertely, that ther is game noon That fro my bokes maketh me to goon...
Seite 81 - So glad am I, whan that I have presence Of it, to doon it alle reverence, As she that is of alle...
Seite 201 - I, for ye be my lady dere! I am so sory, now that ye be light; For certes, but ye make me hevy chere...
Seite 532 - And shapen was this herber roofe and all As a prety parlour ; and also The hegge as thicke as a castle wall, That who that list without to stond or go, Though he would all day prien to and fro, He should not see if there were any wight Within or no...
Seite 209 - For fairer playing non saugh I Than playen me by that ryvere, For from an hille that stood ther nere, Cam doun the streme ful stif and bold, Cleer was the water, and as cold As any welle is...
Seite 82 - And am ful glad yf I may fynde an ere Of any goodly word that ye han left. And thogh it happen me rehercen eft That ye han in your fresshe songes sayd, Forbereth me, and beth not evil apayd5, Syn that ye see I do yt in the honour Of love, and eke in service of the flour, Whom that I serve as I have wit or myght.
Seite 193 - Wei nygh bereft out of my remembraunce; And eke to me it ys a gret penaunce, Syth rym in Englissh hath such skarsete, 80 To folowe word by word the curioaite Of Graunson, flour of hem that make in Fraunce.
Seite 21 - Me, fleynge, in a swappe 2 he hente, And with hys sours 8 a-gene up wente, Me caryinge in his clawes starke, As lyghtly as I were a larke, How high, I cannot telle yow, For I came up, I nyste how. 40 For so astonyed and a-sweved 4 . Was every vertu in my heved,6 What with his sours and with...
Seite 542 - Of divers floures made full craftely All in a sute goodly chapelets they ware ; And so dauncing into the mede they fare. In mid the which they found a tuft that was All oversprad with floures in compas.
Seite 208 - Hard is the hert that loveth nought In May, whan al this mirth is wrought ; Whan he may on these braunches here...

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