Transactions of the Historic Society of Lancashire and Cheshire for the Year ...

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Pedigrees and arms of various families of Lancashire and Cheshire are included in many of the volumes.
 

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Page 97 - The spinsters and the knitters in the sun, And the free maids that weave their thread with bones, Do use to chant it ; it is silly sooth, And dallies with the innocence of love, Like the old age.
Page 97 - Philomel, with melody Sing in our sweet lullaby ; Lulla, lulla, lullaby, lulla, lulla, lullaby : Never harm, Nor spell nor charm, Come our lovely lady nigh ; So, good night, with lullaby.
Page 90 - Barbara : She was in love, and he she loved proved mad And did forsake her : she had a song of ' willow ; ' An old thing 'twas, but it express'd her fortune, And she died singing it...
Page 96 - More, more, I prithee, more. Ami. It will make you melancholy, Monsieur Jaques. Jaq. I thank it. More, I prithee, more. I can suck melancholy out of a song, as a weasel sucks eggs.
Page 98 - Who is Silvia ? what is she, That all our swains commend her ? Holy, fair, and wise is she ; The Heaven such grace did lend her, That she might admired be.
Page 95 - Sigh, no more, ladies, sigh no more, Men were deceivers ever ; One foot in sea, and one on shore ; To one thing constant never : Then sigh not so, But let them go, And be you blithe and bonny ; Converting all your sounds of woe Into Hey nonny, nonny.
Page 93 - T^EAR no more the heat o' the sun -*- Nor the furious winter's rages; Thou thy worldly task hast done, Home art gone, and ta'en thy wages : Golden lads and girls all must, As chimney-sweepers, come to dust. Fear no more the frown o...
Page 106 - And thou, dear Kitty, peerless maid! Do thou a pensive ear incline ; For thou canst weep at every woe, And pity every plaint — but mine. Young Dawson was a gallant boy, A brighter never trod the plain ; And well he loved one charming maid, And dearly was he loved again.
Page 37 - The tide did now its flood-mark gain, And girdled in the Saint's domain : For, with the flow and ebb, its style Varies from continent to isle ; Dry-shod, o'er sands, twice every day, The pilgrims to the shrine find way ; Twice every day, the waves efface Of staves and sandall'd feet the trace.
Page 98 - I had, — but man is but a patched fool, if he will offer to say what methought I had. The eye of man hath not heard, the ear of man hath not seen, man's hand is not able to taste, his tongue to conceive, nor his heart to report, what my dream was. I will get Peter Quince to write a ballad of this dream : it shall be called Bottom's Dream, because it hath no bottom...

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