An English Garner ...: ... Shorter Elizabethan poems, with an introduction by A.H. Bullen. 1903

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A. Constable and Company, Limited, 1903
 

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Page 341 - What wondrous life is this I lead! Ripe apples drop about my head; The luscious clusters of the vine Upon my mouth do crush their wine; The nectarine and curious peach Into my hands themselves do reach; Stumbling on melons, as I pass, Ensnared with flowers, I fall on grass.
Page 314 - Love in my bosom like a bee Doth suck his sweet; Now with his wings he plays with me, Now with his feet. Within mine eyes he makes his nest, His bed amidst my tender breast, My kisses are his daily feast, And yet he robs me of my rest — Ah, wanton, will ye?
Page 95 - O time too swift, O swiftness never ceasing! His youth 'gainst time and age hath ever spurned, But spurned in vain ; youth waneth by increasing : Beauty, strength, youth, are flowers but fading seen } Duty, faith, love, are roots, and ever green. His helmet now shall make a hive for bees, And, lovers...
Page 341 - Meanwhile the mind, from pleasure less, Withdraws into its happiness; The mind, that ocean where each kind Does straight its own resemblance find; Yet it creates, transcending these, Far other worlds, and other seas; Annihilating all that's made To a green thought in a green shade.
Page 336 - Well then ; I now do plainly see, This busy world and I shall ne'er agree ; The very honey of all earthly joy Does of all meats the soonest cloy, And they, methinks, deserve my pity, Who for it can endure the stings, The crowd, and buzz, and murmurings Of this great hive, the city. Ah, yet, ere I descend to th...
Page 96 - And lovers' sonnets turned to holy psalms, A man-at-arms must now serve on his knees, And feed on prayers, which are Age his alms: But though from court to cottage he depart, His Saint is sure of his unspotted heart. And when he saddest sits in homely cell, He'll teach his swains this carol for a song, — ''Blest be the hearts that wish my sovereign well, Curst be the souls that think her any wrong.
Page 125 - WEEP you no more, sad fountains ; What need you flow so fast? Look how the snowy mountains Heaven's sun doth gently waste! But my Sun's heavenly eyes View not your weeping, That now lies sleeping Softly, now softly lies Sleeping. Sleep is a reconciling, A rest that peace begets; Doth not the sun rise smiling When fair at even he sets? Rest you then, rest, sad eyes! Melt not in weeping, While she lies sleeping Softly, now softly lies Sleeping.
Page 336 - I descend to the grave May I a small house and large garden have; And a few friends, and many books, both true, Both wise, and both delightful too!
Page 338 - He makes the figs our mouths to meet, And throws the melons at our feet; But apples plants of such a price, No tree could ever bear them twice...
Page 342 - Or at some fruit-tree's mossy root, Casting the body's vest aside, My soul into the boughs does glide : There like a bird it sits and sings, Then whets and claps its silver wings ; And till prepared for longer flight, Waves in its plumes the various light.

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