easinessSonnet 75 Edmund Spenser

2021年1月20日发(作者：joe什么意思)
Sonnet 75


Edmund Spenser
One day I wrote her name upon the strand,
But came the waves and washed it away;
Agayne i wrote it with a second hand,
But came the tyde, and made my paynes his prey.

A mortall thing so to immortalize,
For I my selve shall lyke to decay,
And eek my name bee wyped out lykewize.

To dy in dust, but you shall live by fame:
My verse your vertues rare shall eternize,
And in the heavens wryte your glorious name.
Where whenas death shall all the world subdew,
Our love shall live, and later life renew.


Sonnet 18 William Shakespeare
Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer's lease hath all too short a date:
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines
And often is his gold complexion dimmed;
And every fair from fair sometimes declines,

By chance or nature's changing course untrimmed;
But thy eternal summer shall not fade,

Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow'st;
When in eternal lines to time thou grow'st;
So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.


Sonnet 29 William Shakespeare
When, in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes,
I all alone beweep my outcast state,
And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries,
And look upon myself, and curse my fate,
Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,
Featured like him, like him with friends possessed,
Desiring this man's art and that man's scope,
With what I most enjoy contented least;
Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising,
Haply I think on thee--and then my state,
Like to the lark at break of day arising

From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate;
For thy sweet love rememb'red such wealth brings
That then I scorn to change my state with kings.



Song

John Donne
Go, and catch a falling star,



Get with child a mandrak root,
Tell me, where all past years are,



Or who cleft the Devil's foot,
Teach me to hear mermaids singing,

Or to keep off envy's stinging,






And find






What wind
Serves to advance an honest mind.

If thou beest born to strange sights,
Things invisible to see,
Ride ten thousand days and nights,
Till age snow white hairs on thee,
Thou, when thou return'st, wilt tell me
All strange wonders that befell thee,






And swear





No where
Lives a woman true, and fair.

If thou find'st one, let me know,

Such a pilgrimage were sweet;
Yet do not, I would not go,
Though at next door we might meet;
Though she were true when you met her,

And last till you write your letter,





Yet she






Will be
False, ere I come, to two, or three.

The Flea

John Donne
Mark but this flea, and mark in this,
How little that which thou deniest me is;
Me it sucked first, and now sucks thee,
And in this flea our two bloods mingled be;
Thou know'st that this cannot be said
A sin, or shame, or loss of maidenhead,


Yet this enjoys before it woo,


And pampered swells with one blood made of two,


And this, alas, is more than we would do.
Oh stay, three lives in one flea spare,
Where we almost, nay more than married, are.
This flea is you and I, and this
Our marriage bed and marriage temple is;
Though parents grudge, and you, we are met,
And cloistered in these living walls of jet,


Though use make you apt to kill me


Let not to that, self-murder added be,


And sacriledge, three sins in killing three.



Cruel and sudden, hast thou since
Purpled thy nail, in blood of innocence?
Wherein could this flea guilty be,

Except in that drop which it sucked from thee?
Yet thou triumph'st, and say'st that thou
Find'st not thy self nor me the weaker now;


'Tis true, then learn how false fears be;


Just so much honor, when thou yield'st to me,


Will waste, as this flea's death took life from thee.


To the Virgins, to Make Much of Time















Robert Herrick
Gather ye rose-buds while ye may,


Old time is still a-flying;
And this same flower that smiles today,


Tomorrow will be dying.


The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun,


The higher he's a-getting,
The sooner will his race be run,


And nearer he's to settiing.



That age is best which is the first,


When youth and blood are warmer;
But being spent, the worse, and worst


Times still succeed the former.


Then be not coy, but use your time,



And, while ye may, go marry;
For, having lost but once your prime,


You may forever tarry.

Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard


















Thomas

Gray
The curfew the knell of parting day,


The lowning herd wind slowly o'er the lea,
The plowman homeward plods his weary way,


And leaves the world to darkness and to me.


Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight,


And all the air a solemn stillness holds,
Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,


And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds;



Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower


The moping owl does to the moon complain
Of such, as wandering near her secret bower,


Molest her ancient solitary reign.

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew tree's shade,


Where heaves the turf in many a moldering heap,
Each in his narrow cell forever laid,


The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.

The breezy call of incense-breathing Morn,


The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed,
The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn,


No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.

For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,


Or busy housewife ply her evening care;
No children run to lisp their sire's return,


Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.



Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield,



Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke;
How jocund did thy drive their team afield!


How bowed the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!

Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,


Their homely joys, and destiny obscure;
Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile


The short and simple annals of the poor.

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power,


And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,
Awaits alike the inevitable hour.


The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault,


If Memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise,
Where through the long- drawn aisle and fretted vault


The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.



Can storied urn or animated bust


Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath?
Can Honor's voice provoke the silent dust,


Or Flattery soothe the dull cold ear of Death?

Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid


Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire;
Hands that the rod of empire might have swayed,


Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre.

But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page


Rich with the spoils of time did ne'er unroll;
Chill Penury repressed their noble rage,


And froze the genial current of the soul.


Full many a gem of purest ray serene,


The dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear;
Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,


And waste its sweetness on the desert air.

Some village Hampden, that with dauntless breast


The little tyrant of his fields withstood;
Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest,


Some Cromwell guiltless of his country's blood.

The applause of listening senates to command,


The threats of pain and ruin to despise,
To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land,


And read their history in a nation's eyes,

Their lot forbade: nor circumscribed alone


Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined;
Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne,


And shut the gates of mercy on mankind,

The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide,


To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame,
Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride


With incense kindled at the Muse's flame.

Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife,


Their sober wishes never learned to stray;
Along the cool sequestered vale of life


They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.

Yet even these bones from insult to protect


Some frail memorial still erected nigh,
With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture decked,


Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.

Their name, their years, spelt by the unlettered Muse,


The place of fame and elegy supply:
And many a holy text around she strews,



That teach the rustic moralist to die.

For who to dumb Forgetfulness a prey,


This pleasing anxious being e'er resigned,
Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day,


Nor cast one longing lingering look behind?

On some fond breast the parting soul relies,


Some pious drops the closing eye requires;
Even from the tomb the voice of Nature cries,


Even in our ashes live their wonted fires.

For thee, who mindful of the unhonoured dead


Dost in these lines their artless tale related;
If chance, by lonely contemplation led,


Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate,

Haply some hoary-headed swain may say,



Brushing with hasty steps the dews away


To meet the sun upon the upland lawn.




That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high,