Sweet was the greenwood as he walked along its paths, and bright the green and rustling leaves, amid which the little birds sang with might and main: and blithely Robin whistled as he trudged along, thinking of Maid Marian and her bright eyes, for at such times a youth's thoughts are wont to turn pleasantly upon the lass that he loves the best.

Sweet be the bands the which true love doth tye, Without constraynt or dread of any ill: The gentle birde feeles no captivity Within her cage, but sings, and feeds her fill.

Sweet are his slumbers: of all human arts Happily ignorant, nor taught by wisdom Numberless woes, nor polished into torment.

Sweet is the music of the spheres, Majestic is Mong Blong, And bland the beverage that cheers, Called Sirupy Souchong; But sweeter, more inspiring far Than tea or peak or tuneful star I deem it to belong To such a place as Beeyah-byyah-bunniga-nelliga-jong.

Sweet is my sleep, but more to be mere stone, So long as ruin and dishonour reign; To bear nought, to feel nought, is my great gain; Then wake me not, speak in an undertone!

[A] Sweet is the lore which Nature brings; 25 Our meddling intellect Mis-shapes the beauteous forms of things: We murder to dissect.

I pull'd the Golden Fruit with eager haste; Sweet was the Fruit, and pleasing to the Taste: With sparkling Wine he

Sweet and dainty were the damsels, alike in raiment and in face.

"Conde turned round to his men-at-arms, and showing first his injured limbs and then the device, 'Sweet is danger for Christ and for fatherland!' which fluttered upon his banner in the breeze, 'Nobles of France,' he cried, 'this is the desired moment Remember in what plight Louis de Bourbon enters the battle for Christ and fatherland!'

"Winter is over and the spring is coming!" Sweet are thy tidings, little page in black "Winter is over and the spring is coming

Sweet indeed is the community of interest, delightful the intercourse which a common foible begets; but correspondingly bitter and distressful is the forced union of nervous zeal and pitiless indifference.

Sweet is the swamp with its secrets, Until we meet a snake; 'T is then we sigh for houses, And our departure take At that enthralling gallop That only childhood knows.

[Footnote 8: I am not sure the queen is not apostrophizing the flowers she is throwing into or upon the coffin: 'Sweets, be my farewell to the sweet.']

Sweet is the rose, but growes upon a brere; Sweet is the iunipeer; but sharpe his bough; Sweet is the eglantine, but pricketh nere; Sweet is the firbloome, but his braunches rough*; Sweet is the cypresse, but his rynd is rough; Sweet is the nut, but bitter is his pill**; Sweet is the broome-flowre, but yet sowre enough;

O Apollo, sweet is the end when men attain thereto, and the beginning availed more when it is speeded of a god.

"You will pardon me for saying every woman is the same, Always greedy for approval, always sensitive to blame; Sweet and passionate are women; weak in mind, though strong in soul; Even you admit, I fancy, that they have no self-control?" "No, I don't admit they haven't," said the patient lady then, "Or they could not sit and listen to the nonsense talked by men.

Sweet is thy memory, friend of my early days, and very pleasant were the hours we spent together: but they have passed away with the things that were, and like the rose leaves that falling fill the air with their perfume, so the fragrance of those hours still lives.

Sweet was his passage to the tomb, Reclining on a Saviour's breast; He heard the welcome"Child, come home," And enter'd on the promis'd rest.

My hoofs I will hide in silken hose; And cinnamon-sweet are my pettitoes Because, you know, they are cloven.

60 Sweet is the holiness of youth: and hence, Calling to mind this matter when I may, Saint Nicholas in my presence standeth aye, For he so young to Christ did reverence.

Sweet is Pleaoh!

Now our worship sweet is o'er Singing, praying, teaching, hearing: Let us gladly God adore For His gracious strength and cheering.

40 Tho' sweet the early spring, her blossoms bright, When first she swells the heart with pure delight, Yet not unlovely is the sober ray That meekly beams o'er autumn's temper'd day; Dear are her fading beauties to the soul, 45 While scarce perceiv'd the deep'ning shadows roll.

Sweet is the air with the budding haws, and the valley stretching for miles below Is white with blossoming cheery trees, as if just covered with lightest snow.

Sweet is the rose, but growes upon a brere; Sweet is the iunipeer; but sharpe his bough; Sweet is the eglantine, but pricketh nere; Sweet is the firbloome, but his braunches rough*; Sweet is the cypresse, but his rynd is rough; Sweet is the nut, but bitter is his pill**; Sweet is the broome-flowre, but yet sowre enough;