#English #Renaissance
Go, soul, the body’s guest, Upon a thankless errand; Fear not to touch the best; The truth shall be thy warrant. Go, since I needs must die,
WRONG not, sweet empress of my h… The merit of true passion, With thinking that he feels no sma… That sues for no compassion. Silence in love bewrays more woe
As you came from the holy land of Walsinghame Met you not with my true love By the way as you came? How shall I know your true love
I was a Poet! But I did not know it, Neither did my Mother, Nor my Sister nor my Brother. The Rich were not aware of it;
But stay, my thoughts, make end, g… Harsh is the voice of woe and sorr… Complaints cure not, and tears do… Griefs for a time, which after mor… To seek for moisture in the Arabi…
Even such is time, which takes in… Our youth, our joys, and all we ha… And pays us but with age and dust, Who in the dark and silent grave When we have wandered all our ways
WHAT is our life? The play of pa… Our mirth? The music of division: Our mothers’ wombs the tiring—hous… Where we are dressed for life’s sh… The earth the stage; Heaven the s…
Fortune hath taken thee away, my l… My life’s soul and my soul’s heave… Fortune hath taken thee away, my p… My only light and my true fancy’s… Fortune hath taken all away from m…
Methought I saw the grave where L… Within that temple where the vesta… Was wont to burn; and, passing by… To see that buried dust of living… Whose tomb fair Love, and fairer…
Our great work, the Otia Merseian… Edited by learned Mister Sampson, And supported by Professor Woodwa… Is financed by numerous Bogus Mee… Hastily convened by Kuno Meyer
IF all the world and love were yo… And truth in every shepherd’s tong… These pretty pleasures might me mo… To live with thee and be thy Love… But Time drives flocks from field…
Prais’d be Diana’s fair and harml… Prais’d be the dews wherewith she… Prais’d be her beams, the glory of… Prais’d be her power by which all… Prais’d be her nymphs with whom sh…
Your dog is not a dog of grace; He does not wag the tail or beg; He bit Miss Dickson in the face; He bit a Bailie in the leg. What tragic choices such a dog
What is our life? A play of passi… Our mirth the music of division, Our mother’s wombs the tiring—hous… Where we are dressed for this shor… Heaven the judicious sharp spectat…
Nature, that washed her hands in m… And had forgot to dry them, Instead of earth took snow and sil… At love’s request to try them, If she a mistress could compose
