The Minor Poems

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Clarendon Press, 1888 - English poetry - 462 pages

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Page ix - He made the book that hight the Hous of Fame, And eke the Deeth of Blaunche the Duchesse, And the Parlement of Foules, as I gesse, And al the love of Palamon and Arcite 420 Of Thebes, thogh the storye ys knowen lyte; And many an ympne for your halydayes, That highten balades, roundels, virelayes...
Page 350 - Insino a qui l' un giogo di Parnaso Assai mi fu, ma or con ambedue M' uopo entrar nell' aringo rimaso. Entra nel petto mio, e spira tue Si come quando Marsia traesti Della vagina delle membra sue.
Page 75 - And that our present worldes lyves space Nis but a maner deth, what wey we trace, And rightful folk shal go, after they dye, To heven ; and shewed him the galaxye.
Page 210 - For whiche unto your mercy thus I crye: Beth hevy ageyn, or elles mot I dye!
Page 186 - Unknowen was the quern and eek the melle; They eten mast, hawes, and swich pounage, And dronken water of the colde welle. Yit nas the ground nat wounded with the plough, But corn up-sprong, unsowe of mannes hond, 10 The which they gniden, and eete nat half y-nough.
Page 193 - Stryve noght, as doth the crokke with the wal. Daunte thy-self, that dauntest otheres dede; And trouthe shal delivere, hit is no drede.
Page 187 - Ther lay no profit, ther was no richesse, But cursed was the tyme, I dar wel seye, That men first dide hir swety bysinesse To grobbe up metal, lurkinge in derknesse, And in the riveres first gemmes soghte. Allas! than sprong up al the cursednesse Of coveyryse, that first our sorwe broghte!
Page 304 - Eternal anarchy, amidst the noise Of endless wars, and by confusion stand : For hot, cold, moist and dry, four champions fierce, Strive here for mastery...
Page 211 - And saveour, as doun in this worlde here, Out of this toune help me through your might, Sin that ye wole nat been my tresorere; For I am shave as nye as any frere.
Page 98 - Now welcom somer, with thy sonne softe, That hast this wintres weders over-shake. Wel han they cause for to gladen ofte, Sith ech of hem recovered hath his make ; Ful blisful may they singen whan they wake; Now welcom somer, with thy sonne softe, That hast this wintres weders over-shake, And driven awey the longe nightes blake.

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