A Select Collection of Old Plays: In Twelve Volumes ; with Additional Notes and Corrections, Volume 10 (Google eBook)

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Septimus Prowett, 1825 - English drama
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Page 67 - Beauty is but a flower, Which wrinkles will devour: Brightness falls from the air; Queens have died young and fair; Dust hath closed Helen's eye; I am sick, I must die. Lord have mercy on us!
Page 20 - SPRING, the sweet spring, is the year's pleasant king; Then blooms each thing, then maids dance in a ring, Cold doth not sting, the pretty birds do sing: Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo...
Page 20 - The palm and may make country houses gay, Lambs frisk and play, the shepherds pipe all day, And we hear aye birds tune this merry lay: Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!
Page 10 - Divines and dying men may talk of hell, But in my heart her several torments dwell.
Page 77 - Croydon's pleasure. Short days, sharp days, long nights come on apace, Ah! who shall hide us from the winter's face? Cold doth increase, the sickness will not cease, And here we lie, God knows, with little ease. From winter, plague, and pestilence, good Lord, deliver us! London doth mourn, Lambeth is quite forlorn. Trades cry, woe worth that ever they were born.
Page 54 - And think so still, so Stella know my mind; Profess indeed I do not Cupid's art; But you, fair maids, at length this true shall find, That his right badge is but worn in the heart. Dumb swans, not chattering pies, do lovers prove; They love indeed who quake to say they love.
Page 54 - And think so still ! so STELLA know my mind. Profess indeed I do not CUPID'S art: But you, fair maids ! at length, this true shall find, That his right badge is but worn in the heart. Dumb swans not chattering pies, do lovers prove. They love indeed who quake to say they love.
Page 20 - Spring, the sweet Spring, is the year's pleasant king ; Then blooms each thing, then maids dance in a ring : Cold doth not sting, the pretty birds do sing, Cuckoo...
Page 67 - ADIEU, farewell earth's bliss, This world uncertain is; Fond are life's lustful joys, Death proves them all but toys, None from his darts can fly. I am sick, I must die. Lord, have mercy on us! Rich men, trust not in wealth, Gold cannot buy you health; Physic himself must fade, All things to end are made. The plague full swift goes by. I am sick, I must die. Lord, have mercy on us! Beauty is but a flower Which wrinkles will devour; Brightness falls from the air, Queens...
Page 68 - Come, Come, the bells do cry. I am sick, I must die. Lord, have mercy on us! Wit with his wantonness Tasteth death's bitterness: Hell's executioner Hath no ears for to hear What vain art can reply: I am sick, I must die. Lord, have mercy on us!

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