The Poetical Works of Edmund Spenser...: Minor poems.- v. 2-3. Faerie Queene

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Clarendon Press, 1909
 

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Strona 6 - Pointed with mortall sting. Of her there bred A thousand yong ones, which she dayly fed, Sucking upon her poisnous dugs ; each one Of sundrie shapes, yet all ill-favored : Soone as that uncouth light upon them shone, Into her mouth they crept, and suddain all were gone.
Strona 31 - The Lyon would not leave her desolate, But with her went along, as a strong gard Of her chast person, and a faithfull mate Of her sad troubles and misfortunes hard: Still when she slept, he kept both watch and ward, And when she wakt, he wayted diligent, With humble service to her will prepard : From her faire eyes he took commandement, And ever by her lookes conceived her intent.
Strona 244 - Payne, And fast beside him sat tumultuous Strife: The one in hand. an yron whip did strayne, The other brandished a bloody knife, And both did gnash their teeth, and both did threten life.
Strona 299 - In her left hand a cup of gold she held, And with her right the riper fruit did reach, Whose sappy liquor, that with fulnesse sweld, Into her cup she scruzd, with daintie breach Of her fine fingers, without fowle empeach, That so faire winepresse made the wine more sweet...
Strona 20 - A goodly Lady clad in scarlot red, Purfled with gold and pearle of rich assay, And like a Persian mitre on her hed Shee wore, with crowns and owches garnished, The which her lavish lovers to her gave; Her wanton palfrey all was overspred With tinsell trappings, woven like a wave, Whose bridle rung with golden bels and bosses brave.
Strona 30 - The lyon, lord of everie beast in field," Quoth she, " his princely puissance doth abate, And mightie proud to humble weake does yield, Forgetfull of the hungry rage, which late Him prickt, in pittie of my sad estate : — But he, my lyon, and my noble lord, . How does he find in cruell hart to hate Her, that him lovd, and ever most adord As the god of my life ? why hath he me abhord...
Strona 21 - Do meete, that with the terrour of the shocke Astonied both, stand sencelesse as a blocke, Forgetfull of the hanging victory : So stood these twaine, unmoved as a rocke, Both staring fierce, and holding idely, The broken reliques of their former cruelty.
Strona 243 - Then gan a cursed hand the quiet wombe Of his great Grandmother with steele to wound, And the hid treasures in her sacred tombe With Sacriledge to dig. Therein he...
Strona 5 - The Laurell, meed of mightie Conquerours And Poets sage ; the Firre that weepeth still...
Strona 115 - Disordred hong about his shoulders round, And hid his face ; through which his hollow eyne Lookt deadly dull, and stared as astound ; His raw-bone cheekes, through penurie and pine, Were shronke into his jawes, as he did never dine.

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