Some Longer Elizabethan Poems

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Arthur Henry Bullen, Thomas Seccombe
A. Constable and Company, Limited, 1903 - English poetry - 441 pages
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Page 414 - Fair stood the wind for France, When we our sails advance, Nor now to prove our chance Longer will tarry ; But putting to the main, At Caux, the mouth of Seine, With all his martial train, Landed King Harry.
Page 415 - Have ever to the sun, By Fame been raised. "And for myself (quoth he) This my full rest shall be, England ne'er mourn for me, Nor more esteem me: Victor I will remain, Or on this earth lie slain, Never shall she sustain Loss to redeem me.
Page 294 - When he descended down the mount, His personage seemed most divine : A thousand graces one might count Upon his lovely cheerful eyne. To hear him speak, and sweetly smile, You were in Paradise the while. A sweet attractive kind of grace ; A full assurance given by looks ; Continual comfort in a face, The lineaments of Gospel books — I trow that count'nance cannot lye, Whose thoughts are legible in the eye.
Page 392 - No cause deferred, no vain-spent journey; For there Christ is the King's Attorney, Who pleads for all without degrees, And He hath angels, but no fees. And when the grand twelve-million jury Of our sins, with direful fury, 'Gainst our souls black verdicts give, Christ pleads His death, and then we live. Be Thou my speaker, taintless pleader, Unblotted lawyer, true proceeder! Thou giv'st salvation even for alms; Not with a bribed lawyer's palms.
Page 413 - That long there doth not live. When as the luscious smell Of that delicious land, Above the seas that flows, The clear wind throws, Your hearts to swell Approaching the dear strand.
Page 412 - And cheerfully at sea, Success you still entice To get the pearl and gold And ours to hold Virginia, Earth's only paradise.
Page 294 - Within these woods of Arcady He chief delight and pleasure took ; And on the mountain Partheny, Upon the crystal liquid brook, The Muses met him every day. That taught him sing, to write, and say...
Page xv - Thus, hoping you will beare with my rude conceit of Cynthia (if for no other cause, yet, for that it is the First Imitation of the verse of that excellent Poet, Maister Spencer, in his Fayrie Queene), I leaue you to the reading of that, which I so much desire may breed your delight.
Page 415 - Poitiers and Cressy tell, When most their pride did swell, Under our swords they fell; No less our skill is Than when our grandsire great, Claiming the regal seat, By many a warlike feat Lopped the French lilies.
Page 417 - England stood, With his brave brother, Clarence, in steel so bright, Though but a maiden knight, Yet in that furious fight Scarce such another. Warwick in blood did wade, Oxford the foe invade, And cruel slaughter made, Still as they ran up ; Suffolk his axe did ply, Beaumont and Willoughby Bare them right doughtily, Ferrers and Fanhope. Upon Saint Crispin's day...

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