Remains of the Early Popular Poetry of England, Том 4

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William Carew Hazlitt
J.R. Smith, 1866

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Стр. 128 - There be three things which are too wonderful for me, yea, four which I know not: The way of an eagle in the air; the way of a serpent upon a rock; the way of a ship in the midst of the sea; and the way of a man with a maid.
Стр. 121 - So went Satan forth from the presence of the LORD, and smote Job with sore boils from the sole of his foot unto his crown.
Стр. 143 - Hark, hark, The dogs do bark, The beggars are coming to town, Some in rags, And some in jags, And some in velvet gown.
Стр. 270 - TENANT TO THE KING, BEING WRONGED BY A LAWYER (HIS NEIGHBOUR), WENT TO THE KING HIMSELF TO MAKE KNOWNE HIS GRIEVANCES. FULL OF SIMPLE MIRTH AND MERRY PLAINE JESTS.
Стр. 126 - A continual dropping in a very rainy day and a contentious woman are alike.
Стр. 121 - But he said unto her, Thou speakest as one of the foolish women speaketh. What? shall we receive good at the hand of God, and shall we not receive evil? In all this did not Job sin with his lips.
Стр. 120 - And it came to pass on the seventh day, that they said unto Samson's wife, entice thy husband that he may declare unto us the riddle, lest we burn thee and thy father's house with fire. Have ye called us to take that we have ? Is it not so ? And Samson's wife wept before him, and said, Thou dost but hate me, and lovest me not.
Стр. 128 - The grave; and the barren womb; the earth that is not filled with water ; and the fire that saith not, It is enough.
Стр. 286 - King call'd up his Treasurer, and bad him fetch him twenty pound. If ever thy errant lye here away, He beare thy charges up and downe. When the poore man saw the gold tendred, for to receive it he was willing. If I had thought the King had so mickle gold, beshrew my heart, Ide a kept my shilling.
Стр. 198 - Which cause me often for to mourne, Or yet to know what for to say. I am worse then mad or wood, And yet I am loth with her to begin : I feare me I shall neuer make her good, Except I do wrap her in black Morels skin, That can no more drawe at plough ne carte. It shall be to late to call for her kinne, When she beginneth once for to smarte, For little ease thereby she shall winne.

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