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Admet Anatomy of Melancholy Anon Beaumont and Fletcher beauty beauty's birds blushing born breast breath Caelia Carew Castara chaste Chloris Corpus Christi College court Cupid dear death delight died disdain dost doth earth English Exeter College extracted eyes face fair fancy fate fear flame flowers folly Francis Beaumont GILES FLETCHER grace grief happy hath hear heart heaven honour hope joys king kiss Laius Langbaine language leave live lord lov'd Love's Love's cruelty lover maid MATTHEW STEVENSON melancholy mind miscellany mistress Muses ne'er never night nymph o'er Oxford passion Picts pleasure poems poet poetry praise pride printed reign rose Saxon says Wood scorn Scotish sighs sing smile SONG SONNET sorrow soul spring stanzas sweet taste tears tell thee thine thing thou art thought Trinity College unto wanton weep Whilst wind wings youth
Página 250 - Her finger was so small, the ring Would not stay on which they did bring, It was too wide a peck : And to say truth, for out it must, ' It look'd like the great collar, just, About our young colt's neck. Her feet beneath her petticoat, Like little mice stole in and out, As if they fear'd the light : But oh ! she dances such a way — No sun upon an Easter day Is half so fine a sight.
Página 69 - Like to the falling of a star; Or as the flights of eagles are; Or like the fresh spring's gaudy hue; Or silver drops of morning dew; Or like a wind that chafes the flood; Or bubbles which on water stood; Even such is man, whose borrowed light Is straight called in, and paid to night. The wind blows out; the bubble dies; The spring entombed in autumn lies; The dew dries up; the star is shot; The flight is past; and man forgot.
Página 277 - PRISON WHEN Love with unconfined wings Hovers within my gates, And my divine Althea brings To whisper at the grates; When I lie tangled in her hair And fettered to her eye, The birds that wanton in the air Know no such liberty.
Página 194 - Go, lovely rose ! Tell her that wastes her time and me, That now she knows, When I resemble her to thee, How sweet and fair she seems to be. Tell her that's young, And shuns to have her graces spied. That hadst thou sprung In deserts where no men abide, Thou must have uncommended died. Small is the worth Of beauty from the light retired : Bid her come forth, Suffer herself to be desired, And not blush so to be admired. Then die ! that she The common fate of all things rare May read in thee, — How...
Página 126 - But Time did beckon to the flowers, and they By noon most cunningly did steal away, And wither'd in my hand. My hand was next to them, and then my heart ; I took, without more thinking, in good part Time's gentle admonition ; Who did so sweetly death's sad taste convey, Making my mind to smell my fatal day, Yet sugaring the suspicion.
Página 290 - But should I now to you relate The strength and riches of their state, The powder, patches, and the pins, The ribbons, jewels, and the rings, The lace, the paint, and warlike things That make up all their magazines : If I should tell the politic arts To take and keep men's hearts ; The letters, embassies, and spies, The frowns, and smiles, and flatteries, The quarrels, tears, and perjuries, Numberless, nameless mysteries...
Página 85 - I how great she be? Great, or good, or kind, or fair, I will ne'er the more despair! If she love me, this believe, I will die ere she shall grieve! If she slight me, when I woo, I can scorn, and let her go! For if she be not for me, What care I for whom she be?
Página 222 - Now the bright morning star, day's harbinger, Comes dancing from the east, and leads with her The flowery May, who from her green lap throws The yellow cowslip, and the pale primrose. Hail, bounteous May, that dost inspire Mirth, and youth, and warm desire ; Woods and groves are of thy dressing, Hill and dale doth boast thy blessing. Thus we salute thee with our early song, And welcome thee, and wish thee long.
Página 73 - And Phoebus in his chair Ensaffroning sea and air Makes vanish every star: Night like a drunkard reels Beyond the hills to shun his flaming wheels: The fields...