Syn that you, Chloe, to your moder sticken, Maketh all ye yonge bacheloures full sicken; Like as a lyttel deere you ben y-hiding Whenas come lovers with theyre pityse chiding;...
Our Father who art in heaven, hallowed be Thy name; Thy Kingdom come, Thy will be done on earth, in Heaven the same; Give us this day our daily bread, and may our debts to heaven--...
Syn that you, Chloe, to your moder sticken, Maketh all ye yonge bacheloures full sicken; Like as a lyttel deere you ben y-hiding Whenas come lovers with theyre pityse chiding....
I cannot eat my porridge, I weary of my play; No longer can I sleep at night, No longer romp by day! Though forty pounds was once my weight, I'm shy of thirty now; I pine, I wither and I fade...
Full many a sinful notion Conceived of foreign powers Has come across the ocean To harm this land of ours; And heresies called fashions Have modesty effaced, And baleful, morbid passions...
Whenas ye plaisaunt Aperille shoures have washed and purged awaye Ye poysons and ye rheums of earth to make a merrie May, Ye shraddy boscage of ye woods ben full of birds that syng...
As beats the sun from mountain crest, With "pretty, pretty", Cometh the partridge from her nest; The flowers threw kisses sweet to her (For all the flowers that bloomed knew her);...
See, Thaliarch mine, how, white with snow, Soracte mocks the sullen sky; How, groaning loud, the woods are bowed, And chained with frost the rivers lie.
Now stands Soracte white with snow, now bend the laboring trees, And with the sharpness of the frost the stagnant rivers freeze. Pile up the billets on the hearth, to warmer cheer incline,...
One asketh: "Tell me, Myrson, tell me true: What's the season pleaseth you? Is it summer suits you best, When from harvest toil we rest? Is it autumn with its glory Of all surfeited desires?...
Play that you are mother dear, And play that papa is your beau; Play that we sit in the corner here, Just as we used to, long ago. Playing so, we lovers two Are just as happy as we can be,...
When, to despoil my native France, With flaming torch and cruel sword And boisterous drums her foeman comes, I curse him and his vandal horde! Yet, what avail accrues to her,...
Chloris, my friend, I pray you your misconduct to forswear; The wife of poor old Ibycus should have more savoir faire. A woman at your time of life, and drawing near death's door,...
Come, Phyllis, I've a cask of wine That fairly reeks with precious juices, And in your tresses you shall twine The loveliest flowers this vale produces.
What perfumed, posie-dizened sirrah, With smiles for diet, Clasps you, O fair but faithless Pyrrha, On the quiet? For whom do you bind up your tresses, As spun-gold yellow,--...
How calm, how beauteous and how cool-- How like a sister to the skies, Appears the broad, transparent pool That in this quiet forest lies. The sunshine ripples on its face,...