The Age of Chaucer (1346-1400)

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G. Bell and Sons, 1901 - English literature - 242 pages
 

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Page xv - The wind bloweth where it listeth, and thou nearest the sound thereof, but canst not tell whence it cometh, and whither it goeth ; so is every one that is born of the Spirit.
Page 21 - Christabel is not, properly speaking, irregular, though it may seem so from its being founded on a new principle : namely, that of counting in each line the accents, not the syllables.
Page 201 - I say to thee, that it is right well done ; that pilgrims have with them both singers and also pipers : that when one of them that goeth barefoot striketh his toe upon a stone and hurteth him sore and maketh him to bleed ; it is well done, that he or his fellow, begin then a song or else take out of his bosom a bagpipe for to drive away with such mirth, the hurt of his fellow. For with such solace, the travail and weariness of pilgrims is lightly and merrily brought forth.
Page 212 - Such notes as warbled to the string, Drew iron tears down Pluto's cheek, And made Hell grant what love did seek. Or call up him that left half told The story of Cambuscan bold, Of Camball, and of Algarsife, And who had Canace to wife, That owned the virtuous ring and glass, And of the wondrous horse of brass, On which the Tartar king did ride...
Page 22 - Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare; Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss, Though winning near the goal — yet, do not grieve; She cannot fade, though thou hast...
Page xlvii - The God of shepheards, Tityrus, is dead, Who taught me homely, as I can. to make...
Page xxxviii - ... to be an interpreter and relater of the best and sagest things among mine own citizens throughout this island in the mother dialect, that what the greatest and choicest wits of Athens, Rome, or modern Italy, and those Hebrews of old did for their country, I, in my proportion, with this over and above, of being a christian, might do for mine...
Page xlviii - Then pardon, O most sacred happie Spirit, That I thy labours lost may thus revive, And steale from thee the meede of thy due merit, That none durst ever...
Page xix - Mighty victor, mighty lord! Low on his funeral couch he lies! No pitying heart, no eye, afford A tear to grace his obsequies.
Page xxi - Trouthe is put doun, resoun is holden fable ; Vertu hath now no dominacioun, Pitee exyled, no man is merciable. Through covetyse is blent discrecioun ; The world hath mad a permutacioun Fro right to wrong, fro trouthe to fikelnesse, That al is lost, for lak of stedfastnesse.

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