Facetiae. Musarum Deliciae: Or, The Muses Recreation. Containing Severall Pieces of Poetique Wit, 1. cilt

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Longman, Hurst, Rees, Orme, and Brown, 1817
 

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Sayfa 185 - Here lies old Hobson. Death hath broke his girt, And here, alas! hath laid him in the dirt; Or else, the ways being foul, twenty to one He's here stuck in a slough, and overthrown. 'Twas such a shifter that, if truth were known, Death was half glad when he had got him down; For he had any time this ten years full Dodged with him betwixt Cambridge and The Bull.
Sayfa 283 - Do not disdain me ! 1 am my mother's joy : Sweet, entertain me ! She'll give me when she dies, All that is fitting: Her...
Sayfa 285 - ... care, And in time take me ; I can have those as fair If you forsake me. For Doll the dairy-maid, Laugh'd at me lately, And wanton Winifred Favours me greatly.
Sayfa 133 - His heart it was as blythe as birds on the tree ; " Never was I sent for before any king, My father, my grandfather, nor none but mee.
Sayfa 208 - By absence this good means I gain, That I can catch her, Where none can watch her, In some close corner of my brain; There I embrace and kiss her, And so I both enjoy and miss her.
Sayfa 98 - As it fell out on a Pentecost day, King Arthur at Camelot kept his court royall, With his faire queene dame Guenever the gay; And many bold barons sitting in hall ; With ladies attired in purple and pall ; And heraults in hewkes, hooting on high, Cryed, Largesse, Largesse, Chevaliers tres-hardie...
Sayfa 133 - The king he writt an a letter then A letter which was large and long, He signed it with his owne hand, And he promised to doe him no wrong.
Sayfa 297 - And wish well to thy soule will I So long as I have life, So will I not for thee Barnard Although I am thy wedded wife.
Sayfa 294 - I thank yee, faire lady, This kindnes thou showest to me; But whether it be to my weal or woe, This night I will lig with thee.
Sayfa 214 - Ask me no more whither do stray The golden atoms of the day; For in pure love heaven did prepare Those powders to enrich your hair. Ask me no more whither doth haste The nightingale when May is past; For in your sweet dividing throat She winters and keeps warm her note. Ask me no more where those stars 'light That downwards fall in dead of night; For in your eyes they sit, and there Fixed become as in their sphere.

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