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againe appeare beare beautie behold birds cause death deedes delight desire doeth dooth doth downe eares earth eche Edwards euery eyes face faine faire faith fall fame feare feede finde Finis fire flocks flowers force Fortune frende grace greene griefe growe hand happy hart hath haue head heare heart heauen helpe honour hope ioye kinde late learned leaue light liue live looke Lord losse loue louers maie meane minde nature neuer Nimph once paine passe pleasant pleasure praise proue Queene rest seeke seeme Shepheard sighs sight sing Song sorrow soule sound spring sunne sure sweet teares thee thing thinke thou thought tree true trust tyme unto vaine vertues wight winde wishe woordes wound yeeld youth
Page 216 - 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.
Page 125 - Marlow, now at least fifty years ago; and the milkmaid's mother sung an answer to it, which was made by Sir Walter Raleigh, in his younger days. They were old-fashioned poetry, but choicely good; I think much better than the strong lines that are now in fashion in this critical age.
Page 125 - 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.
Page 218 - 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.
Page 4 - Take me to thee, and thee to me. No, no, no, no, my dear, let be.
Page 168 - Thy grief more than death would grieve me. If that any thought in me Can taste comfort but of thee, Let me, fed with hellish anguish, Joyless, hopeless, endless languish.
Page 125 - 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?
Page xxxvii - Turn I my looks unto the skies, Love with his arrows wounds mine eyes; If so I gaze upon the ground, Love then in every flower is found. Search I the shade to fly...