The Poetical Language of Flowers: Or, The Pilgrimage of Love

Capa
D. Bogue, 1855 - 192 páginas
 

Outras edições - Ver todos

Termos e frases comuns

Passagens mais conhecidas

Página 81 - Love in my bosom like a bee Doth suck his sweet: Now with his wings he plays with me, Now with his feet. Within mine eyes he makes his nest, His bed amidst my tender breast; My kisses are his daily feast, And yet he robs me of my rest. Ah, wanton, will ye?
Página 185 - Over hill, over dale, Thorough bush, thorough brier, Over park, over pale, Thorough flood, thorough fire, I do wander every where, Swifter than the moon's sphere; And I serve the fairy queen, To dew her orbs upon the green. The cowslips tall her pensioners be: In their gold coats spots you see; Those be rubies, fairy favours, In those freckles live their savours: I must go seek some dewdrops here, And hang a pearl in every cowslip's ear.
Página 29 - The spinsters and the knitters in the sun, And the free maids that weave their thread with bones, Do use to chant it ; it is silly sooth, And dallies with the innocence of love, Like the old age.
Página 49 - I know a bank where the wild thyme blows, Where ox-lips and the nodding violet grows ; Quite over-canopied with luscious woodbine, With sweet musk-roses, and with eglantine...
Página 74 - I where the bolt of Cupid fell : It fell upon a little western flower, Before milk-white, now purple with love's wound. And maidens call it love-in-idleness.
Página 73 - Though old Ulysses tortured from his slumbers The glutted Cyclops, what care ? — Juliet leaning Amid her window-flowers, — sighing, — weaning Tenderly her fancy from its maiden snow, Doth more avail than these : the silver flow Of Hero's tears, the swoon of Imogen, Fair Pastorella in the bandit's den, Are things to brood on with more ardency Than the death-day of empires.
Página 29 - DUKE'S PALACE. [Enter DUKE, CURIO, LORDS; MUSICIANS attending.] DUKE. If music be the food of love, play on, Give me excess of it; that, surfeiting, The appetite may sicken and so die.— That strain again;— it had a dying fall; O, it came o'er my ear like the sweet south, That breathes upon a bank of violets, Stealing and giving odour.— Enough; no more; 'Tis not so sweet now as it was before.
Página 50 - Those virgin lilies, all the night Bathing their beauties in the lake, That they may rise more fresh and bright, When their beloved Sun's awake...
Página viii - Is there so small a range In the present strength of manhood, that the high Imagination cannot freely fly As she was wont of old?
Página 59 - She takes him by the hand, and that is cold ; She whispers in his ears a heavy tale, As if they heard the woeful words she told...

Informações bibliográficas