The English Poets: Selections with Critical Introductions, Volume 2Thomas Humphry Ward Macmillan, 1905 - English poetry |
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Page 6
... force which we are accustomed to find in Jonson , but also for a tender grace which he is not so usually supposed to have possessed . In the collection called the Forest , small as it is , Jonson has done the greatest justice to the ...
... force which we are accustomed to find in Jonson , but also for a tender grace which he is not so usually supposed to have possessed . In the collection called the Forest , small as it is , Jonson has done the greatest justice to the ...
Page 28
... force I knew , or false delight , Or to what oar she did her captives chain , Led by a sacred troop of Phœbus ' train , I first began to read , then lov'd to write , And so to praise a perfect red and white , But , God wot , wist not ...
... force I knew , or false delight , Or to what oar she did her captives chain , Led by a sacred troop of Phœbus ' train , I first began to read , then lov'd to write , And so to praise a perfect red and white , But , God wot , wist not ...
Page 60
... force ; but though he shows profound art in tracing the most monstrous aberrations of love , jealousy , and revenge to a natural origin in strangeness of temper , the sense of strangeness is left predominant . In the preface to The ...
... force ; but though he shows profound art in tracing the most monstrous aberrations of love , jealousy , and revenge to a natural origin in strangeness of temper , the sense of strangeness is left predominant . In the preface to The ...
Page 61
... force of overmastering circumstances , but by some vicious warp in their own nature . In Shakespeare's plays men are driven into tragic error by the conspiracy of forces out- side themselves ; in Ford's plays fatal false steps are made ...
... force of overmastering circumstances , but by some vicious warp in their own nature . In Shakespeare's plays men are driven into tragic error by the conspiracy of forces out- side themselves ; in Ford's plays fatal false steps are made ...
Page 62
... force by which it is animated . Even in his songs , with all the softness of their music , we are conscious of the same severely regulating taste . All his few songs are of a sad strain , but they are not filled with the ecstasy of ...
... force by which it is animated . Even in his songs , with all the softness of their music , we are conscious of the same severely regulating taste . All his few songs are of a sad strain , but they are not filled with the ecstasy of ...
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Common terms and phrases
Absalom and Achitophel Æneid beauty Ben Jonson born breast breath bright Carew Castara Catullus Comus conceits Cowley Crashaw crown death delight died dost doth Dryden earth EDMUND W English eternal eyes fair fame fancy fate fear fire flame flowers genius Giles Fletcher glory grace Habington hand happy hast hath heart heaven hell Herbert heroic couplet Herrick Hesperides hill honour Hudibras Jonson King kiss Lady light live Lord Lycidas Milton mind mistress Muse nature never night o'er once Paradise Paradise Lost Paradise Regained passion Perilla pleasure poems poet poetic poetry praise rhyme rose sacred satire shade shepherds shine sigh sight sing sleep song sonnet soul spirit stars sweet tears thee thine things thought unto verse Waller wanton weep WILLIAM HABINGTON winds wings Wither write youth
Popular passages
Page 218 - Some men with swords may reap the field, And plant fresh laurels where they kill ; But their strong nerves at last must yield ; They tame but one another still : Early or late They stoop to fate, And must give up their murmuring breath, When they, poor captives, creep to death.
Page 218 - The glories of our blood and state Are shadows, not substantial things ; There is no armour against fate ; Death lays his icy hand on kings : Sceptre and crown Must tumble down, And in the dust be equal made With the poor crooked scythe and spade.
Page 204 - I should (said He) Bestow this jewel also on My creature, He would adore My gifts instead of Me, And rest in nature, not the God of nature : So both should losers be. Yet let him keep the rest, But keep them with repining restlessness : Let him be rich and weary, that at least, If goodness lead him not, yet weariness May toss him to My breast.
Page 455 - A daring pilot in extremity, Pleased with the danger, when the waves went high, He sought the storms ; but, for a calm unfit, Would steer too nigh the sands to boast his wit.
Page 301 - I am now indebted, as being a work not to be raised from the heat of youth, or the vapours of wine, like that which flows at waste from the pen of some vulgar amourist, or the trencher fury of a rhyming parasite ; nor to be obtained by the invocation of dame Memory and her siren daughters ; but by devout prayer to that eternal spirit, who can enrich with all utterance and knowledge, and sends out his seraphim with the hallowed fire of his altar to touch and purify the lips of whom he pleases...
Page 185 - Stone walls do not a prison make, Nor iron bars a cage; Minds innocent and quiet take That for an hermitage; If I have freedom in my love And in my soul am free, Angels alone, that soar above, Enjoy such liberty.
Page 178 - 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? Prithee, why so mute? Quit, quit, for shame, this will not move: This cannot take her. If of herself she will not love, Nothing can make her: The devil take her!
Page 319 - Can any mortal mixture of earth's mould Breathe such divine enchanting ravishment? Sure something holy lodges in that breast, And with these raptures moves the vocal air To testify his hidden residence.
Page 326 - Weep no more, woeful shepherds, weep no more, For Lycidas, your sorrow, is not dead, Sunk though he be beneath the watery floor. So sinks the day-star in the ocean bed, And yet anon repairs his drooping head, And tricks his beams, and with new-spangled ore Flames in the forehead of the morning sky...
Page 328 - AVENGE, O Lord, thy slaughtered saints, whose bones Lie scattered on the Alpine mountains cold; Even them who kept thy truth so pure of old, When all our fathers worshipped stocks and stones, Forget not; in thy book record their groans Who were thy sheep, and in their ancient fold Slain by the bloody Piedmontese, that rolled Mother with infant down the rocks.