The Works of the British Poets, with Lives of the Authors, Volume 2 (Google eBook)

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J. Eastburn, 1819 - English poetry
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Page 230 - Eftsoones they heard a most melodious sound, Of all that mote delight a daintie eare, Such as attonce might not on living ground, Save in this Paradise, be heard elsewhere : Right hard it was for wight which did it heare, To read what manner musicke that mote bee ; For all that pleasing is to living eare Was there consorted in one harmonee ; Birdes...
Page 252 - The more they on it stare. But her sad eyes, still fastened on the ground, Are governed with goodly modesty, That suffers not one look to glance awry, Which may let in a little thought unsound. Why blush ye, love, to give to me your hand, The pledge of all our band?
Page 258 - Out of the bosome of eternall blisse, In which he reigned with his glorious syre, He downe descended...
Page 226 - That so faire winepresse made the wine more sweet: Thereof she usd to give to drinke to each, Whom passing by she happened to meet: It was her guise, all straungers goodly so to greet.
Page 102 - And oft for dread of hurt would him advise The angry beastes not rashly to despise, Nor too much to provoke; for he would learne The lyon stoup to him in lowly wise, (A lesson hard,) and make the libbard Sterne Leave roaring, when in rage he for revenge did earne.
Page 32 - And cursed heven; and spake reprochful shame Of highest God, the Lord of life and light. A bold bad man ! that dar'd to call by name Great Gorgon, prince of darknes and dead night; At which Cocytus quakes, and Styx is put to flight.
Page 22 - That lasie seemd, in being ever last, Or wearied with bearing of her bag Of needments at his backe.
Page 326 - Upon a grasshopper they got And, what with amble and with trot, For hedge nor ditch they spared not, But after her they hie them; A cobweb over them they throw, To shield the wind if it should blow, Themselves they wisely could bestow, Lest any should espy them.
Page 29 - At length they chaunst to meet upon the way An aged Sire, in long blacke weedes yclad, His feete all bare, his beard all hoarie gray, And by his belt his booke he hanging had ; Sober he seemde, and very sagely sad, And to the ground his eyes were lowly bent, Simple in shew, and voide of malice bad, And all the way he prayed, as he went, And often knockt his brest, as one that did repent.
Page 238 - And, sooth, men say that he was not the sonne Of mortall Syre or other living wight, But wondrously begotten, and begonne By false illusion of a guilefull Spright On a faire Lady Nonne, that whilome hight Matilda, daughter to Pubidius, Who was the lord of Mathraval by right, And coosen unto king Ambrosius ; Whence he indued was with skill so merveilous.

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