The Complete Works in Verse and Prose of George Herbert ...

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private circulation, 1874 - 314 páginas

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Página 97 - The dew shall weep thy fall to-night ; For thou must die. Sweet Rose, whose hue, angry and brave, Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye, Thy root is ever in its grave, And thou must die. Sweet Spring, full of sweet days and roses, A box where sweets compacted lie, My music shows ye have your closes, And all must die.
Página 51 - Whereas my birth and spirit rather took The way that takes the town, Thou didst betray me to a ling'ring book And wrap me in a gown.
Página 263 - But do not dull thy palm with entertainment Of each new-hatch'd unfledg'd comrade Beware Of entrance to a quarrel but being in Bear it that the opposer may beware of thee Give every man thine ear but few thy voice Take each man's censure but reserve thy judgment...
Página 211 - Will not grow bright and clean. A servant with this clause Makes drudgery divine : Who sweeps a room, as for Thy laws, Makes that and th
Página 82 - Th' indorsement of supreme delight, Writ by a friend, and with his blood ; The couch of time ; care's balm and bay ; The week were dark, but for thy light : Thy Torch doth show the way.
Página 245 - Whosoever is delighted in solitude, is either a wild beast or a god : '' for it is most true, that a natural and secret hatred and aversion towards society in any man hath somewhat of the savage beast ; but it is most untrue that it should have any character at all of the divine nature, except it proceed, not out of a pleasure in solitude, but out of a love and desire...
Página 174 - All wasted? Not so, my heart; but there is fruit, And thou hast hands. Recover all thy sigh-blown age On double pleasures; leave thy cold dispute...
Página 210 - TEACH me, my God and King, In all things thee to see, And what I do in any thing, To do it as for thee...
Página 140 - There was a prince of old At Salem dwelt, who liv'd with good increase Of flock and fold. He sweetly lived ; yet sweetness did not save His life from foes, But after death out of his grave, There sprang twelve stalks of wheat : Which many wond'ring at, got some of those To plant and set.
Página 188 - THE FLOWER. How fresh, O Lord, how sweet and clean Are Thy returns ! e'en as the flowers in spring , To which, besides their own demean, The late-past frosts tributes of pleasure bring. Grief melts away Like snow in May, As if there were no such cold thing.

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