Chrysomela: A Selection from the Lyrical Poems of Robert Herrick

Macmillan, 1877 - 199 páginas

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Página 51 - Ah BEN! Say how, or when Shall we thy guests Meet at those lyric feasts, Made at the Sun, The Dog, the Triple Tun ? Where we such clusters had, As made us nobly wild, not mad ; And yet each verse of thine Outdid the meat, outdid the frolic wine.
Página 122 - GATHER ye rose-buds while ye may : Old Time is still a-flying ; And this same flower that smiles to-day, To-morrow will be dying.
Página 96 - Her eyes the glow-worm lend thee, The shooting stars attend thee, And the elves also, Whose little eyes glow Like the sparks of fire, befriend thee.
Página 134 - TO BLOSSOMS. Fair pledges of a fruitful tree, Why do ye fall so fast? Your date is not so past ; But you may stay yet here awhile, To blush and gently smile, And go at last.
Página 109 - DELIGHT IN DISORDER A SWEET disorder in the dress Kindles in clothes a wantonness: A lawn about the shoulders thrown Into a fine distraction, An erring lace, which here and there Enthralls the crimson stomacher, A cuff neglectful, and thereby Ribbands to flow confusedly, A winning wave (deserving note) In the tempestuous petticoat, A careless shoe-string, in whose tie I see a wild civility, Do more bewitch me, than when art Is too precise in every part.
Página 21 - Come, my Corinna, come ; and coming, mark How each field turns a street : each street a Park Made green, and trimm'd with trees : see how Devotion gives each House a Bough, Or Branch : Each Porch, each door, ere this, An Ark a Tabernacle is Made up of white-thorn neatly enterwove ; As if here were those cooler shades of love.
Página 20 - Get up, get up for shame! The blooming morn Upon her wings presents the god unshorn. See how Aurora throws her fair Fresh-quilted colours through the air: Get up, sweet slug-a-bed, and see 5 The dew bespangling herb and tree!
Página 146 - TO MEADOWS YE have been fresh and green, Ye have been fill'd with flowers, And ye the walks have been Where maids have spent their hours.
Página 120 - Twill not be long, Perilla, after this, That I must give thee the supremest...
Página 114 - To Dianeme. SWEET, be not proud of those two eyes, Which, star-like, sparkle in their skies ; Nor be you proud that you can see All hearts your captives, yours yet free ; Be you not proud of that rich hair, Which wantons with the love-sick air ; When as that ruby which you wear, Sunk from the tip of your soft ear, Will last to be a precious stone, When all your world of beauty's gone.

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