Reliques of ancient English poetry, Del 1

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E. Felber, 1893 - 1136 sider

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Side 22 - I never heard the old song of Percy and Douglas that I found not my heart moved more than with a trumpet...
Side 189 - The glories of our blood and state Are shadows, not substantial things ; There is no armour against fate ; Death lays his icy hand on kings : Sceptre and crown Must tumble down, And in the dust be equal made With the poor crooked scythe and spade.
Side 205 - Some have too much, yet still do crave; I little have, and seek no more. They are but poor, though much they have, And I am rich with little store: They poor, I rich; they beg, I give; They lack, I leave; they pine, I live.
Side 187 - Against Sir Hugh Montgomery *So right the shaft he set, The gray goose wing that was thereon In his heart's blood was wet. This fight did last from break of day Till setting of the sun ; For when they rung the evening-bell, The battle scarce was done.
Side 467 - AN ancient story I'll tell you anon Of a notable prince that was called King John; And he ruled England with main and with might, For he did great wrong, and maintained little right. And I'll tell you a story, a story so merry, Concerning the Abbot of Canterbury; How for his house-keeping and high renown, They rode post for him to fair London town.
Side 159 - A honey tongue, a heart of gall, Is fancy's spring, but sorrow's fall. Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses, Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies, Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten ; In folly ripe, in reason rotten. Thy belt of straw, and ivy buds, Thy coral clasps, and amber studs, All these in me no means can move To come to thee, and be thy love.
Side 189 - Some men with swords may reap the field, And plant fresh laurels where they kill; But their strong nerves at last must yield They tame but one another still: Early or late, They stoop to fate, And must give up their murmuring breath, When they, pale captives, creep to death.
Side 290 - To part with you, the same : And sure all tho, that do not so, True lovers are they none ; For, in my mynde, of all mankynde I love but you alone.
Side 205 - Content I live, this is my stay, I seek no more than may suffice; I press to bear no haughty sway; Look, what I lack my mind supplies. Lo! thus I triumph like a king, Content with that my mind doth bring.
Side 71 - O wha is this has don this deid, This ill deid don to me, To send me out this time o' the yeir, To sail upon the se!

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