Автор: PHILIP SIDNEY

Ring out your bells, let mourning shows be spread; For love is dead – All love is dead, infected With […]

The nightingale, as soon as April bringeth Unto her rested sense a perfect waking, While late bare earth, proud of […]

Who hath his fancy pleasèd With fruits of happy sight; Let here his eyes be raisèd, On Nature’s sweetest light; […]

I Near Wilton sweet, huge heaps of stones are found, But so confused, that neither any eye Can count them […]

PSALM I. beatus vir. He blessed is who neither loosely treads The straying stepps as wicked counsaile leades; Ne for […]

Leave me, O love which reachest but to dust; And thou, my mind, aspire to higher things; Grow rich in […]

To the tune of Basciami vita mia Sleep, baby mine, Desire; nurse Beauty singeth: Thy cries, O baby, set mine […]

I Louing in trueth, and fayne in verse my loue to show, That she, deare Shee, might take som pleasure […]