Edmund Spenser

Edmund Spenser

1,001 карма
Все работыПоиск

Amoretti LXXV One Day I Wrote her Name

от
One day I wrote her name upon the strand, But came the waves and washed it away: Again I wrote it with a second hand, But came the tide, and made my pains his prey
"Vain man," said she, "that dost in vain assay, A mortal thing ...
Читать дальше

From Daphnaida

от
HE fell away in her first ages spring,
Whil'st yet her leafe was greene, and fresh her rinde,
And whil'st her braunch faire blossomes foorth did bring,
She fell away against all course of kinde
Читать дальше

Prothalamion

от
LM was the day, and through the trembling air Sweet-breathing Zephyrus did softly play A gentle spirit, that lightly did delay Hot Titan's beams, which then did glister fair; When I (whom sullen care, Through discontent of my long fruitless stay I...
Читать дальше

Sonnet LXXVII

от
Was it a dreame, or did I see it playne,a goodly table of pure yvory:all spred with iuncats, fit to entertayne,the greatest Prince with pompous roialty
Mongst which there in a siluer dish did ly,twoo golden apples of vnualewd price:far passin...
Читать дальше

The Shepheardes Calender April

от
April: Ægloga Quarta
Thenot & Hobbinoll
Thenot
Ell me good Hobbinoll, what garres thee greete
Читать дальше

Poem 94

от
Athlesse the cruell boy not so content,would needs the fly pursue:
And in his hand with heedlesse hardiment,him caught for to subdue
But when on it he hasty hand did lay,the Bee him stung therefore:
Now out alasse (he cryde) and wel...
Читать дальше

Ruins of Rome by Bellay

от
1 Ye heavenly spirits, whose ashy cinders lie Under deep ruins, with huge walls opprest,
But not your praise, the which shall never die Through your fair verses, ne in ashes rest; If so be shrilling voice of wight alive May reach from hence t...
Читать дальше

Poem 15

от
Ing ye the bels, ye yong men of the towne,
And leaue your wonted labors for this day:
This day is holy; doe ye write it dovvne,that ye for euer it remember may
This day the sunne is in his chiefest hight,
Читать дальше

Poem 95

от
Nto his mother straight he weeping came,and of his griefe complayned:
Who could not chose but laugh at his fond game,though sad to see him pained
Think now (quod she) my sonne how great the smartof those whom thou dost wound:
Full m...
Читать дальше
Показать больше

Мы используем cookies, чтобы вам было проще и удобнее пользоваться нашим сервисом. Узнать больше.