The Golden Pomp: A Procession of English Lyrics from Surrey to ShirleyArthur Quiller-Couch |
From inside the book
Results 1-5 of 41
Page 9
... grow old apace , and die Before we know our liberty . Our life is short , and our days run As fast away as does the sun . And , as a vapour or a drop of rain , Once lost , can ne'er be found again , So when or you or I are made A fable ...
... grow old apace , and die Before we know our liberty . Our life is short , and our days run As fast away as does the sun . And , as a vapour or a drop of rain , Once lost , can ne'er be found again , So when or you or I are made A fable ...
Page 13
... grow , And inviting men to taste , Apples even ripe below , Winding gently to the waist : All love's emblems , and all cry , ' Ladies , if not plucked , we die . ' J. Fletcher . XIII THE IMPATIENT MAID WHEN as the rye reach'd to the ...
... grow , And inviting men to taste , Apples even ripe below , Winding gently to the waist : All love's emblems , and all cry , ' Ladies , if not plucked , we die . ' J. Fletcher . XIII THE IMPATIENT MAID WHEN as the rye reach'd to the ...
Page 16
... grow older . Thou as heaven art fair and young , Thine eyes like twin stars shining ; But ere another day be sprung All these will be declining . Then winter comes with all his fears , And all thy sweets shall borrow ; Too late then ...
... grow older . Thou as heaven art fair and young , Thine eyes like twin stars shining ; But ere another day be sprung All these will be declining . Then winter comes with all his fears , And all thy sweets shall borrow ; Too late then ...
Page 41
... grow cold ; And Philomel becometh dumb , The rest complains of cares to come . The flowers do fade , the wanton fields To wayward winter reckoning yields : A honey tongue , a heart of gall , Is fancy's spring but sorrow's fall . Thy ...
... grow cold ; And Philomel becometh dumb , The rest complains of cares to come . The flowers do fade , the wanton fields To wayward winter reckoning yields : A honey tongue , a heart of gall , Is fancy's spring but sorrow's fall . Thy ...
Page 49
... grow , You'd scorn proud towers , And seek them in these bowers Where winds sometimes our woods perhaps may shake , But blustering care could never tempest make , Nor murmurs e'er come nigh us , Saving of fountains that glide by us ...
... grow , You'd scorn proud towers , And seek them in these bowers Where winds sometimes our woods perhaps may shake , But blustering care could never tempest make , Nor murmurs e'er come nigh us , Saving of fountains that glide by us ...
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Common terms and phrases
Anon ANTHONY HOPE Author babe Baring Gould beauty behold birds Book of Airs bright Buckram Campion Corydon Crown 8vo cuckoo dear death delight dost doth E. F. BENSON earth England's Helicon English eyes fair fairy-queen fear flowers GILBERT PARKER Gordon Browne grace green Greensleeves grief H. C. BEECHING hath heart heaven Heigh Herrick honour Illustrated JOHN KEBLE Jonson king kiss Lady leave light lips live look Lord Love's lovers lullaby Madrigals maid merry MESSRS METHUEN'S LIST mind morn never night nonny pity pleasure poem praise pretty Prisoner of Zenda Queen rose Shakespeare shepherd sighs sing sleep smile song sorrow soul spring stanzas story swain tears Tereu thee thine things thou art thou hast thought true love unto verse volume W. E. HENLEY W. G. COLLINGWOOD waly wanton weep wind winter youth
Popular passages
Page 116 - When in the chronicle of wasted time I see descriptions of the fairest wights, And beauty making beautiful old rhyme, In praise of ladies dead, and lovely knights ; Then, in the blazon of sweet beauty's best, Of hand, of foot, of lip, of eye, of brow, I see their antique pen would have express'd Even such a beauty as you master now.
Page 22 - When daisies pied, and violets blue, And lady-smocks all silver-white, And cuckoo-buds, of yellow hue, Do paint the meadows with delight ; The cuckoo then, on every tree, Mocks married men, for thus sings he :Cuckoo ; Cuckoo, cuckoo...
Page 199 - How like a winter hath my absence been From thee, the pleasure of the fleeting year! What freezings have I felt, what dark days seen! What old December's bareness everywhere! And yet this time removed was summer's time; The teeming autumn, big with rich increase, Bearing the wanton burden of the prime, Like widow'd wombs after their lords...
Page 275 - A lily of a day, Is fairer far, in May, Although it fall, and die that night; It was the plant, and flower of light. In small proportions, we just beauties see: And in short measures, life may perfect be.
Page 142 - When to the sessions of sweet silent thought I summon up remembrance of things past, I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought, And with old woes new wail my dear time's waste...
Page 245 - And sable curls all silver'd o'er with white, When lofty trees I see barren of leaves Which erst from heat did canopy the herd, And summer's green all girded up in sheaves Borne on the bier with white and bristly beard, Then of thy beauty do I question make, That thou among the wastes of time must go, Since sweets and beauties do themselves forsake And die as fast as they see others grow ; And nothing 'gainst Time's scythe can make defence Save breed, to brave him when he takes thee hence.
Page 41 - 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 245 - To me, fair friend, you never can be old, For as you were when first your eye I eyed, Such seems your beauty still. Three winters cold Have from the forests shook three summers...
Page 105 - As it fell upon a day, In the merry month of May, Sitting in a pleasant shade Which a grove of myrtles made...
Page 172 - Come away, come away, death, And in sad cypress let me be laid ; Fly away, fly away, breath ; I am slain by a fair cruel maid. My shroud of white, stuck all with yew, O, prepare it ! My part of death, no one so true Did share it. Not a flower, not a flower sweet, On my black coffin let there be strown...