Das mittelenglische Gedicht The Boke of Cupide: (The Cuckow and the nyghtyngale)

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Erich Vollmer
E. Ebering, 1898 - 118 pages
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Page 105 - To-morrow is Saint Valentine's day, All in' the morning betime, And I a maid at your window, To be your Valentine...
Page 50 - Ne herde never better, as I gesse ; Therwith a wind, unnethe hit might be lesse, Made in the leves grene a noise softe Acordant to the foules songe on-lofte.
Page 42 - And when she had.de songen hit out to the ende, 'Now farewel', quoth she. 'for I most wende, And god of love, that can ryght wel and may, As mochel joye sende the this day, 255. As euer yet he eny lover sende!
Page 32 - That they began of May to done her houres. XV. They coude that seruise al by rote: Ther was mony a lovely [strange] note!
Page 38 - And thenne shalt thou hoten as do I.' xxxviii 'Fy', quoth she, 'on thi name and on the! The god of love ne let the neuere ythe! For thou art wors a thousand fold then wood, For mony oon is ful worthy and ful good, 190.
Page 99 - is clomben up on hevene Fourty degrees and oon, and more, y-wis. Madame Pertelote, my worldes blis, Herkneth thise blisful briddes how they singe, And see the fresshe floures how they springe; Ful is myn herte of revel and solas.
Page 40 - my herte wol to breke, To here thus this false brid to speke Of Loue, and of bis worshipful seruyse. Now, god of love, thou help me in sum wise, 215. That I may on this cukkow ben awreke'. XLIV. Me thoghte then that I sterte up anoon, And to the brook I ran and gat a stoon, And at the cukkow hertely I caste, And he for drede fley awey ful faste, 220. And glad was I, when that he was agoon. XLV. And euermore the cukkow, äs he fley, He seyde: 'farewel, farewel, papyngay!
Page 60 - And thercof groweth oft tyme grete seknesse, And al for lak of that that they desyre : And thus in May ben hertys set on fire, And so they brenne forthe in grete distresse. I speke al this of felyng truly ; For althogh I be olde and unlusty, Yet have I felte of that sekenes in May Bothe hote and colde, an acces every day, How sore, ywis, ther wot no wight but I.
Page 36 - To euery wight that gentil ys of kynde; XXXI. 'For therof truly cometh al goodnesse, Al honour and al gentilnesse, Worshippe, ese and al hertys lust, Perfyt joye and ful assured trust, 155. Jolite, plesaunce and freshenesse, XXXII.

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