Poets, Poems, and Rhymes of East Cheshire: Being a History of the Poetry and Song Lore, and a Book of Biographies of the Poets and Song Writers of the Eastern Portion of the County Palatine of Chester

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J. Higham, 1908 - 180 pàgines
 

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Pàgina 7 - I make an end: On my knees I pardon crave for my offence, Which did from love and true affection first commence. Commend me to thy lovely lady, Bear to her this chain of gold; And these bracelets for a token; Grieving that I was so bold: All my jewels in like sort take thou with thee, For they are fitting for thy wife, but not for me.
Pàgina 6 - And by birth and parentage of high degree. As his prisoner there he kept her, In his hands her life did...
Pàgina 6 - Rest you still, most gallant lady ; ; Rest you still, and weep no more ; Of fair lovers there is plenty, Spain doth yield a wondrous store.
Pàgina 7 - But ere my prayers have an end, be sure of this, To pray for thee and for thy love I will not miss. Thus farewell, most gallant captain! Farewell too my heart's content!
Pàgina 15 - My sledge and hammer lie declined My bellows too have lost their wind My fire's extinct, my forge decayed And in the dust my vice is laid My coals are spent, my iron gone My nails are drove, my work is done My fire-dried corpse here lies at rest My soul smoke-like soars to be blest.
Pàgina 12 - TB lived as some other boys did, content with water-pottage, buttermilk, and jannock, till he was between thirteen and fourteen years of age, when Providence began to smile on him in his advancement to a pair of Dutch looms, when he met with treacle to his pottage, and sometimes a little in his buttermilk, or spread on his jannock.
Pàgina 66 - ETERNAL'S vast, immeasurable home, Lovely by day, and wonderful by night! Than this enameled floor, so greenly bright, A richer pavement man hath never "trod ; He cannot gaze upon a holier sight Than fleeting cloud, fresh wave, and fruitful sod — Leaves of that boundless Book writ by the hand of God!
Pàgina 14 - till, out of breath, He threw away his spade. When death beheld his comrade yield, He, like a cunning knave, Came, soft as wind, poor Jo. behind, And push'd him int
Pàgina 88 - Tis pleasant, sure, to see one's name in print; A book's a book, although there's nothing in't.
Pàgina 6 - To favour him in any thing she was not coy. But at last there came commandment For to set the ladies free, With their jewels still adorned, None to do them injury. Then said this lady...

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