Collectanea anglo-poetica: or, A bibliographical and descriptive catalogue of a portion of a collection of early English poetry, with occasional extracts and remarks biographical and critical, Volume 55 (Google eBook)

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Printed for the Chetham society, 1861 - English poetry
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Page 257 - Love not the world, neither the things that are in the world. If any man love the world, the love of the Father is not in him. For all that is in the world, the lust of the flesh, and the lust of the eyes, and the pride of life, is not of the Father, but is of the world. And the world passeth away, and the lust thereof: but he that doeth the will of God abideth for ever.
Page 330 - Several Poems, compiled with great variety of wit and learning, full of delight; wherein especially is contained a complete discourse and description of the four elements, constitutions, ages of man, seasons of the year; together with an exact epitome of the...
Page 272 - Yea, for thy sake are we killed all the day long; we are counted as sheep for the slaughter.
Page 335 - In lakes and ponds, you leave your numerous fry, So nature taught, and yet you know not why, You...
Page 335 - I by a goodly river's side, Where gliding streams the rocks did overwhelm, A lonely place, with pleasures dignified. I once that loved the shady woods so well, Now thought the rivers did the trees excel, And if the sun would ever shine, there would I dwell.
Page 334 - More Heaven then Earth was here no winter & no night. Then on a stately Oak I cast mine Eye, Whose ruffling top the Clouds seem'd to aspire; How long since thou wast in thine Infancy? Thy strength, and stature, more thy years admire, Hath hundred winters past since thou wast born ? Or thousand since thou brakest thy shell of horn, If so, all these as nought, Eternity doth scorn.
Page 230 - FRANCIS BEAUMONT'S LETTER TO BEN JONSON [' Written before he and Master Fletcher came to London, with two of the precedent comedies, then not finished, which deferred their merry meetings at the Mermaid...
Page 307 - As withereth the primrose by the river, As fadeth summer's sun from gliding fountains, As vanisheth the light-blown bubble ever, As melteth snow upon the mossy mountains: So melts, so vanisheth, so fades, so withers The rose, the shine, the bubble, and the snow, Of praise, pomp, glory, joy, which short life gathers, Fair praise, vain pomp, sweet glory, brittle joy. The withered primrose by the mourning river, The faded summer's sun from weeping fountains, The light-blown bubble, vanished for ever,...
Page 254 - There is no feat of activity nor gambol of wit that ever was performed by man, from him that vaults on Pegasus to him that tumbles through the hoop of an anagram, but Benlowes has got the mastery in it, whether it be high-rope wit or low-rope wit. He has all sorts of echoes, rebuses, chronograms, &c., besides carwitchets, clenches, and quibbles.
Page 226 - London Printed for Tho. Parkhurst, at the Bible and Three Crowns, at the lower end of Cheapside near Mercers Chappel.

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