The British Bibliographer, Band 3

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Seite 212 - COME live with me and be my Love, And we will all the pleasures prove That valleys, groves, hills and fields, Woods or steepy mountain yields.
Seite xvii - Beauty sat bathing by a spring, Where fairest shades did hide her; The winds blew calm, the birds did sing, The cool streams ran beside her. My wanton thoughts enticed mine eye To see what was forbidden, But better memory said, fie! So vain desire was chidden. Hey, nonny, nonny, &c.
Seite vii - New perfumed with flowers fresh growing, Astrophel with Stella sweet Did for mutual comfort meet; Both within themselves oppressed, But each in the other blessed. Him great harms had taught much care, Her fair neck a foul yoke bare; But her sight his cares did...
Seite 214 - 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.
Seite 192 - Tereus' love, on her by strong hand wroken, Wherein she suffering, all her spirits languish, Full womanlike complains her will was broken. But I, who, daily craving, Cannot have to content me, Have more cause to lament me, Since wanting is more woe than too much having.
Seite 4 - This day to man came pledge of perfect peace, This day to man came love and unity : This day man's grief began for to surcease, This day did man receive a remedy, For each offence and every deadly sin, With guilty heart, that erst he wandered in.
Seite v - Love in my bosom like a bee, Doth suck his sweet; Now with his wings he plays with me, Now with his feet. Within mine eyes he makes his nest, His bed amidst my tender breast, My kisses are his daily feast; And yet he robs me of my rest: Ah, wanton, will ye?
Seite 46 - And with your piteous layes have learnd to breed Compassion in a countrey lasses hart Hearken, ye gentle shepheards, to my song, And place my dolefull plaint your plaints emong. To you alone I sing this mournfull verse, The mournfulst verse that ever man heard tell: To you whose softened hearts it may empierse With dolours dart for death of Astrophel.
Seite 88 - A thing that creeps, it cannot go, A prize that passeth to and fro, A thing for one, a thing for moe, And he that proves shall find it so : And, shepherd, this is Love, I trow.

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