The Works of Donald G. Mitchell: English lands, letters and kings, from Celt to Tudor

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C. Scribner's sons, 1907

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Strana 248 - ... arrows, His mother's doves and team of sparrows : Loses them too ; then down he throws The coral of his lip, the rose Growing on's cheek (but none knows how) ; With these the crystal of his brow, And then the dimple of his chin — All these did my Campaspe win. At last he set her both his eyes. — She won, and Cupid blind did rise. O Love, has she done this to thee ? What shall, alas ! become of me ? 6 SPRING'S WELCOME What bird so sings, yet so does wail ? O, 'tis the ravished nightingale....
Strana 269 - 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 227 - 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 135 - 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 260 - 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...
Strana 319 - That Day she was dressed in white Silk, bordered with Pearls of the Size of Beans, and over it a Mantle of black Silk, shot with Silver Threads; her Train was very long, the End of it borne by a Marchioness; instead of a Chain, she had an oblong Collar of Gold and Jewels.
Strana 286 - 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 193 - I cannot eat but little meat, My stomach is not good ; But sure I think, that I can drink With him that wears a hood...
Strana 140 - Merry Margaret As midsummer flower, Gentle as falcon Or hawk of the tower: With solace and gladness, Much mirth and no madness, All good and no badness; So joyously, So maidenly, So womanly Her demeaning In every thing. Far, far passing That I can indite, Or suffice to write Of Merry Margaret As midsummer flower, Gentle as falcon Or hawk of the tower.
Strana 175 - This is the state of man ; To-day he puts forth The tender leaves of hope, to-morrow blossoms, And bears his blushing honors 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.

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