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Page 185 - Like to the falling of a star; Or as the flights of eagles are; Or like the fresh spring's gaudy hue; Or silver drops of morning dew; Or like a wind that chafes the flood; Or bubbles which on water stood; Even such is man, whose borrowed light Is straight called in, and paid to night. The wind blows out; the bubble dies; The spring entombed in autumn lies; The dew dries up; the star is shot; The flight is past; and man forgot.
Page 202 - What things have we seen Done at the Mermaid! Heard words that have been So nimble and so full of subtle flame As if that every one from whence they came Had meant to put his whole wit in a jest, And had resolved to live a fool the rest Of his dull life.
Page 498 - Her lips were red ; and one was thin, Compared to that was next her chin, Some bee had stung it newly ; But, Dick, her eyes so guard her face, I durst no more upon them gaze, Than on the sun in July.
Page 498 - Her feet beneath her Petticoat, Like little mice stole in and out, As if they fear'd the light: But oh! she dances such a way! No sun upon an Easter day Is half so fine a sight.
Page 498 - A ballad upon a wedding I tell thee, Dick, where I have been, Where I the rarest things have seen, Oh, things without compare! Such sights again cannot be found In any place on English ground, Be it at wake or fair.
Page 493 - Why so pale and wan, fond lover? Prithee, why so pale? Will, when looking well can't move her, Looking ill prevail? Prithee, why so pale? Why so dull and mute, young sinner? Prithee, why so mute? Will, when speaking well can't win her, Saying nothing do't?
Page 507 - WHEN, dearest, I but think of thee, Methinks all things that lovely be Are present, and my soul delighted : For beauties that from worth arise Are like the grace of deities, Still present with us, though unsighted.
Page 557 - One went to brag, th' other to pray ; One stands up close and treads on high, Where th' other dares not lend his eye. One nearer to God's altar trod, The other to the altar's God.
Page 199 - A tongue chain'd up without a sound ! Fountain heads and pathless groves, Places which pale passion loves! Moonlight walks, when all the fowls Are warmly housed, save bats and owls ! A midnight bell, a parting groan — These are the sounds we feed upon ; Then stretch our bones in a still gloomy valley; Nothing's so dainty sweet as lovely melancholy.