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appears arms ballads beauty better blood born bring cause Chaucer Court dead dear death delight desire doth earth Elizabethan English eyes face fair fall fear fire follow fortune give gold grace green hand hath head hear heart heaven hold honour hope Italy king lady language learned leave less light lines live look Lord lovers master mind nature never night passed passion play pleasure poems poet poetical poetry praise Queen rest rich Robin Hood seems sense Sidney sight sing sleep sometimes song sonnets soon soul spring Stella story strong sweet tell thair thee thing thou thought true truth turn unto Venus verse virtue worth write written young
Page 459 - Come away, come away, death, And in sad cypress let me be laid ; Fly away, fly away, breath ; I am slain by a fair cruel maid. My shroud of white, stuck all with yew, O, prepare it ! My part of death, no one so true Did share it.
Page 449 - Full many a glorious morning have I seen Flatter the mountain-tops with sovereign eye, Kissing with golden face the meadows green, Gilding pale streams with heavenly alchemy; Anon permit the basest clouds to ride With ugly rack on his celestial face, And from the forlorn world his visage hide, Stealing unseen to west with this disgrace.
Page 448 - When in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes, I all alone beweep my outcast state, And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries, And look upon myself, and curse my fate, Wishing me like to one more rich in hope, Featured like him, like him with friends possessed, Desiring this man's art, and that man's scope...
Page 450 - O, how much more doth beauty beauteous seem By that sweet ornament which truth doth give! The rose looks fair, but fairer we it deem For that sweet odour which doth in it live.
Page 485 - IF all the world and love were young, And truth in every shepherd's tongue, These pretty pleasures might me move To live with thee and be thy love.
Page 458 - 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.
Page 450 - So am I as the rich, whose blessed key Can bring him to his sweet up-locked treasure, The which he will not every hour survey, For blunting the fine point of seldom pleasure. Therefore are feasts so solemn and so rare, Since seldom coming, in the long year set, Like stones of worth they thinly placed are, Or captain* jewels in the carcanet.
Page xiii - THE future of poetry is immense, because in poetry, where it is worthy of its high destinies, our race, as time goes on, will find an ever surer and surer stay. There is not a creed which is not shaken, not an accredited dogma which is not shown to be questionable, not a received tradition which does not threaten to dissolve.
Page 347 - With how sad steps, O Moon, thou climb'st the skies : How silently ; and with how wan a face ! What ! may it be, that even in heavenly place That busy Archer his sharp arrows tries?
Page 423 - 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?