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Books I and II of The Faerie Queene: The Mutability Cantos and Selections… (original 1968; edição 1965)
por Edmund Spenser (Autor), Robert Kellogg (Editor), Oliver Steele (Editor)
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Books I and II of The Faerie Queene: The Mutability Cantos and Selections from the Minor Poetry por Edmund Spenser (1968)
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Purchase of this book includes free trial access to www.million-books.com where you can read more than a million books for free. This is an OCR edition with typos. Excerpt from book: CANTO II. The guilefull great Enchaunter parts the Redcrosse Knight from Truth: Into whose stead faire falshood steps, and workes him woefull ruth. 1 By this the northerne wagoner had set His sevenfold teme behind the stedfast starre That was in Ocean waves yet never wet, But firme is fixt, and sendeth light from farre To all that in the wide deepe wandring arre: And chearefull Chaunticlere with his note shrill Had warned once, that Phoebus fiery carre In hast was climbing up the easterne hill, Full envious that night so long his roome did fill. 2 When those accursed messengers of hell, That feigning dreame, and that faire-forged Spright, Came to their wicked maister, and gan tell Their bootelesse paines, and ill-succeeding night: Who all in rage to see his skilfull might Deluded so, gan threaten hellish paine And sad Proserpines wrath, them to affright. But, when he saw his threatning was but vaine, He cast about, and searcht his baleful bookes again. 7 Now when the rosy-fingred Morning faire, Weary of aged Tithones saffron bed, Had spread her purple robe through deawy aire, And the high hils Titan discovered, The royall virgin shooke off drousyhed; And, rising forth out of her baser bowre, Lookt for her knight, who far away was fled, And for her Dwarfe, that wont to waite each howre: Then gan she wail and weepe to see that woeful stowre. 8 And after him she rode with so much speede As her slow beast could make; but all in vaine: For him so far had borne his light-foot steede, Pricked with wrath and fiery fierce disdaine, That him to follow was but fruitlesse paine; Yet she her weary limbes would never rest, But every hil and dale, each wood and plaine, Did search, sore grieved in her gentle brest, He so ungently left her, whom she loved best....
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