A History of English RhythmsGeorge Bell, 1882 - 730 páginas |
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Términos y frases comunes
accented syllable accentual verse adjective Alexandrine alliteration alliterative Anglo-Saxon ballet-stave Ben Jonson Beowulf Cadmon Cæd century Chau Chaucer common compound consonants couplet dialect diphthong doth doubt edition English poetry Eormanric example final rime five accents four accents French hæf Harl hath heof hexameter hire king Knightes Tale language Latin Layamon lengthened letters Lord mæg metre metrical point middle pause Milton Myrgings o'er old English Ormulum passage peculiarities poem poet poetry probably Prol pronounced pronunciation rarely reader rhythm rime Robert of Brunne Romance sectional rime seems six accents sometimes song sound specimen Spenser stanza stave syllable thær thatt thee ther thon Thorpe thou thurh translation triple measure tumbling verse unaccented syllables verb verse of five Verses beginning versification virelay vowel wæs word writers written
Pasajes populares
Página 658 - Go, lovely Rose ! Tell her, that wastes her time and me, That now she knows, When I resemble her to thee, How sweet and fair she seems to be. Tell her that's young And shuns to have her graces spied, That hadst thou sprung In deserts, where no men abide, Thou must have uncommended died. Small is the worth Of beauty from the light retired: Bid her come forth, Suffer herself to be desired, And not blush so to be admired.
Página 650 - Help waste a sullen day, what may be won From the hard season gaining? Time will run On smoother, till Favonius reinspire The frozen earth, and clothe in fresh attire The lily and rose, that neither sowed nor spun. What neat repast shall feast us, light and choice, Of Attic taste, with wine, whence we may rise To hear the lute well touched, or artful voice Warble immortal notes and Tuscan air? He who of those delights can judge, and spare To interpose them oft, is not unwise.
Página 188 - Still to be neat, still to be drest, As you were going to a feast ; Still to be powdered, still perfumed: Lady, it is to be presumed, Though art's hid causes are not found, All is not sweet, all is not sound. Give me a look, give me a face; That makes simplicity a grace ; Robes loosely flowing, hair as free : Such sweet neglect more taketh me, Than all the adulteries of art ; They strike mine eyes, but not my heart.
Página 10 - Th' infernal doors, and on their hinges grate Harsh thunder, that the lowest bottom shook Of Erebus.
Página 107 - O ! how altered was its sprightlier tone, When Cheerfulness, a nymph of healthiest hue, Her bow across her shoulder flung, Her buskins...
Página 599 - And frolic it, with ho, ho, ho! Sometimes I meet them like a man, Sometimes an ox, sometimes a hound; And to a horse I turn me can, To trip and trot about them round. But if to ride My back they stride, More swift than wind away I go: O'er hedge and lands, Through pools and ponds I hurry laughing, ho, ho, ho!
Página 150 - THOUGH need make many poets, and some such As art and nature have not better'd much ; Yet ours for want hath not so loved the stage, As he dare serve the ill customs of the age, Or purchase your delight at such a rate, As, for it, he himself must justly hate...
Página 658 - SWEET Day, so cool, so calm, so bright, The bridal of the earth and sky, 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. Only a sweet and virtuous soul, Like season'd...
Página 68 - And, father cardinal, I have heard you say, That we shall see and know our friends in heaven: If that be true, I shall see my boy again...
Página 649 - What more felicity can fall to creature Than to enjoy delight with liberty, And to be lord of all the works of nature! To reign in the air from earth to highest sky, To feed on flowers and weeds of glorious feature, To take whatever thing doth please the eye ! Who rests not pleased with such happiness, Well worthy he to taste of wretchedness.