The Poetical Works of Sir Thomas Watt: With Memoir and Critical Dissertation

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W. P. Nimmo, 1868 - 211 pages

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Page 21 - That sometime they have put themselves in danger To take bread at my hand; and now they range, Busily seeking with a continual change. Thanked be fortune, it hath been otherwise Twenty times better; but once...
Page 21 - Dear heart, how like you this ? ' It was no dream ; for I lay broad awaking : But all is turned, thorough my gentleness, Into a strange fashion of forsaking ; And I have leave to go of her goodness, And she also to use new-fangleness : But since that I so kindly am served, I would fain know what she hath deserved.
Page 19 - Now cease, my lute, this is the last Labour, that thou and I shall waste; And ended is that we begun : Now is this song both sung and past; My lute, be still, for I have done.
Page 18 - And when this song is sung and past, My lute, be still, for I have done. As to be heard where ear is none, As lead to grave in marble stone, My Song may pierce her heart as soon. Should we then sigh, or sing, or moan? No, no, my lute, for I have done.
Page 124 - Was never bird tangled in lime That brake away in better time, Than I, that rotten boughs did climb, And had no hurt, but scaped free. Now ha! ha! ha! full well is me, For I am now at liberty.
Page 21 - Therewith all sweetly did me kiss, And softly said, 'Dear heart, how like you this?
Page 96 - That hath loved thee so long, In wealth and woe among ? And is thy heart so strong As for to leave me thus ? Say nay, say nay ! And wilt thou leave me thus, That hath given thee my heart, Never for to depart, Neither for pain nor smart; And wilt thou leave me thus ? Say nay, say nay ! And wilt thou leave me thus And have no more pity Of him that loveth thee?
Page 11 - LOVE. FAREWELL, Love, and all thy laws for ever ; Thy baited hooks shall tangle me no more : Senec, and Plato, call me from thy lore, To perfect wealth, my wit for to endeavour...
Page 83 - BLAME not my Lute ! for he must sound Of this or that as liketh me ; For lack of wit the Lute is bound To give such tunes as pleaseth me ; Though my songs be somewhat strange, And speak such words as touch thy change, Blame not my Lute ! My Lute ! alas ! doth not offend, Though that perforce he must agree To sound such tunes as I intend, To sing to them that heareth me ; Then though my songs be somewhat plain, And toucheth some that use to feign, Blame not my Lute...
Page 172 - This maketh me at home to hunt and hawk, And in foul weather at my book to sit, In frost and snow then with my bow to stalk. No man doth mark whereso I ride or go. In lusty leas at liberty I walk, And of these news I feel nor weal nor woe, Save that a clog doth hang yet at my heel.

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