English Lands, Letters and Kings ...

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C. Scribner's Sons, 1889
 

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Strana 48 - Where falls not hail, or rain, or any snow. Nor ever wind blows loudly; but it lies Deep-meadow'd, happy, fair with orchard lawns And bowery hollows crown'd with summer sea, Where I will heal me of my grievous wound.
Strana 282 - I remember, the players have often mentioned it as an honour to Shakespeare, that in his writing (whatsoever he penned) he never blotted out a line. My answer hath been, Would he had blotted a thousand.
Strana 115 - Should I turn upon the true prince ? Why, thou knowest, I am as valiant as Hercules: but beware instinct; the lion will not touch the true prince. Instinct is a great matter ; I was a coward on instinct.
Strana 250 - And I will make thee beds of roses And a thousand fragrant posies, A cap of flowers, and a kirtle Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle...
Strana 139 - To drive the deer with hound and horn Earl Percy took his way ; The child may rue that is unborn The hunting of that day.
Strana 208 - And blesseth her with his two happy hands, How the red roses flush up in her cheeks, And the pure snow with goodly vermeil stain, Like crimson dyed in grain, That even th...
Strana 241 - GOD ALMIGHTY first planted a Garden. And indeed it is the purest of human pleasures. It is the greatest refreshment to the spirits of man; without which buildings and palaces are but gross...
Strana 155 - Farewell, a long farewell, to all my greatness ! This is the state of man ; to-day he puts forth The tender leaves of hope, to-morrow blossoms, And bears his blushing honours thick upon him : The third day comes a frost, a killing frost ; And,— when he thinks, good easy man, full surely His greatness is a ripening, — nips his root, And then he falls, as I do.
Strana 267 - As fresh as bin the flowers in May, And of my love my roundelay, My merry, merry, merry roundelay, Concludes with Cupid's curse,— They that do change old love for new, Pray gods they change for worse ! Ambo simul.
Strana 259 - When he left his pretty boy, Father's sorrow, father's joy. Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee; When thou art old there's grief enough for thee.

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