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Longman, Hurst, Rees, and Orme, 1808 - Poetry
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Page 253 - A gown made of the finest wool, Which from our pretty lambs we pull, Fair lined slippers for the cold, With buckles of the purest gold. ' A belt of straw and ivy buds With coral clasps and amber studs : And if these pleasures may thee move, Come live with me and be my Love.
Page 97 - Content I live, this is my stay; I seek no more than may suffice; I press to bear no haughty sway; Look, what I lack my mind supplies. Lo, thus I triumph like a king, Content with that my mind doth bring.
Page 93 - Who God doth late and early pray More of his grace than gifts to lend, And entertains the harmless day With a religious book or friend ; This man is freed from servile bands Of hope to rise, or fear to fall ; Lord of himself, though not of lands ; And having nothing, yet hath all.
Page 392 - Going to the Wars Tell me not, sweet, I am unkind, That from the nunnery Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind To war and arms I fly. True, a new mistress now I chase, The first foe in the field; And with a stronger faith embrace A sword, a horse, a shield. 1 Imprisoned or caged. Yet this inconstancy is such As you too shall adore; I could not love thee, dear, so much, Loved I not honor more.
Page 254 - Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses, Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies, Soon break, soon wither — soon forgotten, In folly ripe, in reason rotten. Thy belt of straw and ivy-buds, Thy coral clasps and amber studs, — All these in me no means can move To come to thee and be thy Love.
Page 259 - I AM monarch of all I survey, My right there is none to dispute ; From the centre all round to the sea I am lord of the fowl and the brute.
Page 93 - HOW happy is he born and taught That serveth not another's will; Whose armour is his honest thought, And simple truth his utmost skill...
Page 297 - Let wind and weather do its worst, Be you to us but kind, Let Dutchmen vapour, Spaniards curse, No sorrow we shall find : ' Tis then no matter how things go. Or who's our friend or who's our foe.
Page 338 - No, Sir ; there is nothing which has yet been contrived by man, by which so much happiness is produced as by a good tavern or inn.
Page 98 - Some have too much, yet still do crave; I little have, and seek no more. They are but poor, though much they have, And I am rich with little store; They poor, I rich; they beg, I give; They lack, I leave; they pine, I live. I laugh not at another's loss, I grudge not at another's gain...

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