Chief British Poets of the Fourteenth and Fifteenth Centuries

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William Allan Neilson, Kenneth Grant Tremayne Webster
Houghton, Mifflin Company, 1916 - English poetry - 442 pages

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Page 95 - Me thynketh it acordaunt to resoun To telle yow al the condicioun Of ech of hem, so as it semed me, And whiche they weren, and of what degree, 40 And eek in what array that they were inne; And at a knyght than wol I first bigynne.
Page 266 - As I was walking all alane, I heard twa corbies making a mane; The tane unto the t'other say, "Where sail we gang and dine to-day?
Page 262 - And what wul ye leive to your ain mither deir, Edward, Edward? And what wul ye lewe to your ain mither deir ? My deir son, now tell me O." "The curse of hell frae me sail ye beir, Mither, mither, The curse of hell frae me sail ye beir, Sic counseils ye gave to me O.
Page 95 - That slepen al the night with open ye, (So priketh hem nature in hir corages) : Than longen folk to goon on pilgrimages (And palmers for to seken straunge strondes) To feme halwes, couthe in sondry londes ; And specially, from every shires ende Of Engelond, to Caunterbury they wende, The holy blisful martir for to seke, That hem hath holpen, whan that they were seke.
Page 98 - For if he yaf, he dorste make avaunt, He wiste that a man was repentaunt. For many a man so hard is of his herte, He may nat wepe al-thogh him sore smerte. 230 Therfore, in stede of weping and preyeres, Men moot yeve silver to the povre freres.
Page 143 - My tale is of a cok, as ye may here, That took his counseil of his wyf, with sorwe, To walken in the yerd upon that morwe That he had met the dreem, that I yow tolde.
Page 97 - The reule of seint Maure or of seint Beneit, By-cause that it was old and som-del streit, This ilke monk leet olde thinges pace, And held after the newe world the space.
Page 102 - Now is nat that of God a ful fair grace, That swich a lewed mannes wit shal pace The wisdom of an heep of lerned men?
Page 150 - leve moder, leet me in! Lo, how I vanish, flesh, and blood, and skin! Allas! whan shul my bones been at reste? Moder, with yow wolde I chaunge my cheste, That in my chambre longe tyme hath be, Ye ! for an heyre clout to wrappe me ! " But yet to me she wol nat do that grace, For which ful pale and welked is my face.
Page 268 - Here is a royal brand," she said, "That I have found in the green sea; And while your body it is on, Drawn shall your blood never be; But if you touch me, tail or fin, I swear my brand your death shall be.

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