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Seite 61 - The turtle to her make hath told her tale. Summer is come, for every spray now springs: The hart hath hung his old head on the pale; The buck in brake his winter coat he flings; The fishes flete with new repaired scale.
Seite 102 - Awake : The morning shines, and the fresh field Calls us ; we lose the prime, to mark how spring Our tender plants, how blows the citron grove, What drops the myrrh, and what the balmy reed, How nature paints her colours, how the bee Sits on the bloom extracting liquid sweet.
Seite 268 - WALY waly up the bank, And waly waly down the brae, And waly waly yon...
Seite 103 - Hark, hark ! the lark at heaven's gate sings, And Phoebus 'gins arise, His steeds to water at those springs On chaliced flowers that lies ; And winking Mary-buds begin To ope their golden eyes : With every thing that pretty is, My lady sweet, arise : Arise, arise.
Seite 225 - But these are all lies : men have died from time to time and worms have eaten them, but not for love.
Seite 35 - Oh, many a shaft, at random sent, Finds mark the archer never meant ; And many a word, at random spoken, May soothe or wound a heart that's broken.
Seite 230 - He turneth all gnats into camels ; and cares not to undo the world for a circumstance : flesh on a Friday is more abomination to him than his neighbour's bed : he abhors more, not to uncover at the name of Jesus, than to swear by the name of God.
Seite 201 - POET'S EPITAPH. ART thou a statesman, in the van Of public business train'd and bred ? — First learn to love one living man ! Then mayst thou think upon the dead, A lawyer art thou ? — draw not nigh ; Go, carry to some other place The hardness of thy coward eye, The falsehood of thy sallow face.
Seite 61 - The buck in brake his winter-coat he flings, The fishes fleet with new-repaired scale : The adder all her slough away she flings, The swift swallow pursues the flies small, The busy bee her honey now she mings. Winter is worn that was the flower's bale, And thus I see, among those pleasant things, Each care decays, and yet my sorrow springs.
Seite 230 - An hypocrite is the worst kind of player, by so much as he acts the better part, which hath always two faces, ofttimes two hearts ; that can compose his forehead to sadness and gravity, while he bids his heart be wanton and careless within, and in the meantime laughs within himself to think how smoothly he hath cozened the beholder.