The History of English Poetry: From the Close of the Eleventh Century to the Commencement of the Eighteenth Century. To which are Prefixed, Three Dissertations: 1. Of the Origin of Romantic Fiction in Europe. 2. On the Introduction of Learning Into England. 3. On the Gesta Romanorum, Band 3

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Seite 155 - I cannot eat but little meat, My stomach is not good ; But sure I think, that I can drink With him that wears a hood...
Seite 169 - And first within the porch and jaws of Hell Sat deep Remorse of Conscience, all besprent With tears: and to herself oft would she tell Her wretchedness, and cursing never stent...
Seite 171 - By him, lay heavy SLEEP, the cousin of DEATH, Flat on the ground, and still as any stone, A very corpse, save yielding forth a breath! Small keep took he, whom FORTUNE frowned on ; Or whom she lifted up into the throne Of high renown; but as a living death, So dead-alive, of life he drew the breath!
Seite 180 - Served only to discover sights of woe, Regions of sorrow, doleful shades, where peace And rest can never dwell...
Seite 337 - In our forefathers tyme, whan Papistrie, as a standyng poole, couered and ouerflowed all England, fewe bookes were read in our tong, sauyng certaine bookes of Cheualrie, as they sayd, for pastime and pleasure, which, as some say, were made in Monasteries, by idle Monkes or wanton Chanons: as 'one for example, Morte Arthure...
Seite 173 - With, visage grim, stern looks, and blackly hued; In his right hand a naked sword he had, That to the hilts was all with blood imbrued; And in his left, that kings and kingdoms rued, Famine and fire he held, and therewithal He razed towns and threw down towers and all.
Seite 197 - Now is the winter of our discontent Made glorious summer by this sun of York ; And all the clouds that lour'd upon our house In the deep bosom of the ocean buried. Now are our brows bound with victorious wreaths ; Our bruised arms hung up for monuments ; Our stern alarums changed to merry meetings, Our dreadful marches to delightful measures.
Seite 20 - Ed ho in odio me stesso , ed amo altrui : Pascomi di dolor , piangendo rido ; Egualmente mi spiace morte e vita : In questo stato son , Donna , per vui...
Seite 156 - I love no roast but a nut-brown toast, And a crab laid in the fire ; A little bread shall do me stead; Much bread I not desire. No frost nor snow, no wind, I trow, Can hurt me if I wold ; I am so wrapped and thoroughly lapped Of jolly good ale and old.
Seite 19 - Then shalt thou know beauty but lent, And wish and want as I have done. Now cease, my lute, this is the last 'Labour, that thou and I shall waste ; And ended is that we begun : Now is this song both sung and past ; My lute, be still, for I have done.

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