Mediaeval Scottish Poetry ...

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Sands & Company, 1892 - English poetry - 269 pages
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Page 74 - Vnto impnis of my maisteris dere, Gowere and Chaucere, that on the steppis satt Of rethorike, quhill thai were lyvand here, Superlatiue as poetis laureate, In moralitee and eloquence ornate, I recommend my buk in lynis seven, And eke thair saulis vnto the blisse of hevin.
Page 175 - Nor hald non udir flour in sic denty As the fresche Ros, of cullour reid and quhyt; For gife thow dois, hurt is thyne honesty, Conciddering that no flour is so perfyt, So full of vertew, plesans, and delyt, So full of blisfull angeilik bewty, Imperiall birth, honour and dignite.
Page 110 - Quhilk all this warld with weir hes maid to wag. Than fair Phebus, lanterne and lamp of licht Of man and beist, baith frute and flourisching, Tender nureis and banischer of nicht, And of the warld causing, be his moving...
Page 172 - The purpour sone, with tendir bemys reid, 50 In orient bricht as angell did appeir, Throw goldin skyis putting vp his heid, Quhois gilt tressis schone so wondir cleir, That all the world tuke confort, fer and neir, To luke vpone his fresche and blisfull face, 55 Doing all sable fro the hevynnis chace.
Page 188 - He sparis no lord for his piscence, Na clerk for his intelligence ; His awfull strak may no man fle ; Timor mortis conturbat me.
Page 121 - Tuik hir figure sa sone, and lo, now quhy: The idole of ane thing in cace may be Sa deip imprentit in the fantasy That it deludis the wittis outwardly, And sa appeiris in forme and lyke estait Within the mynd as it was figurait.
Page 112 - Hir gyse was gray, and full of spottis blak, And on hir breist ane churle paintit full evin Beirand ane bunche of thornis on his bak, Quhilk for his thift micht clim na nar the hevin.
Page 194 - Rute of all evill and grund of vyce, That nevir cowd be content...
Page 115 - Lo quhat it is' (quod sche), 'With fraward langage for to mufe and steir Our craibit Goddis, and sa is sene on me ! My blaspheming now have I bocht full deir. All eirdlie Joy and mirth I set areir. Allace this day, allace this wofull tyde, Quhen I began with my Goddis for to Chyde.
Page 114 - I change thy mirth into melancholy, Quhilk is the mother of all pensivenes; Thy moisture and thy heit in cald and dry; Thyne insolence, thy play and wantones, To greit diseis; thy pomp and thy riches In mortall neid; and greit penuritie Thow suffer sail, and as ane beggar die.

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