"The merry London, my most kyndly nurse,
That to me gave this life's first active source."
He proudly declared that "he took his name from an ancient house," but we know little of his immediate14 family. His boyhood was spent at Smithfield, then within easy reach of woods and fields, and he has given us a glimpse of it in these words, which show that he was a boy very much like all other boys:—
"Whilome in youth, when flowed my joy full spring
Like swallow swift, I wandered here and there
for heat of headlesse lust15 me did so sting,
That I oft doubted daunger, had no fear:
I went the wastefull woodes and forrest wide
Withouten dread16 of wolves to bene espied17.
"I wont18 to raunge amid the mazie thicket19,
And gather nuttes to make my Christmas game,
And joyed oft to chase the trembling pricket,
Or hunt the hartlesse hare till she were tame.
What wrecked20 I of wintrie age's waste?
Tho' deemed I my spring would ever last.
"How often have I scaled the craggie oke,
All to dislodge the raven21 of her nest?
How have I wearied with many a stroke
The stately walnut22 tree, the while the rest
Under the tree fell all for nuttes at strife23?
For like to me was libertye and life."
He was educated at the Merchant Taylors' School, and afterwards at Cambridge, where an old biographer declares "he mispent not his time, as the fruites of his labours doe manifest, for that he became an excellent scholar, especially most happy in English poetry." But no other memories remain to us of his university life except the names of his two great and lifelong friends, and all we know of him during the first few years after he left Cambridge is that he lived in the north, and that he fell violently in love with a certain Rosaline, "a gentlewoman both of nature and manners, worthy24 to be commended to immortalitie for her rare and singular virtues26," but who apparently27 did not in any way return his ardent28 affections. He lamented29 her indifference30 so deeply that he left his home and made his way to London, "all weeping and disconsolate," and though he was by nature light-hearted and pleasure-loving, he treasured the memory of her many charms for fourteen years, until he met and married the Elizabeth whom he described as "my love, my life's last ornament31." But if it was despair which drove Spenser to London, he had no cause ever to regret the move, for it led to his making the acquaintance of Sir Philip Sidney, who introduced him to his uncle, the all-powerful Earl of Leicester. Both received him cordially, and in a short time he was mixing in all the intellectual society of the day. England was at peace; Elizabeth's firm rule made for prosperity; the new learning had taken root; the spirit of adventure, of imagination, of chivalry32 had free scope; the spirit of growth, of progress, of enterprise pervaded33 the air. All was ready for the coming of a poet who could sing as Chaucer had done, and make sweet music with the national language. In the winter of 1579 Spenser published, not under his own name, his "Shepherdes Calendar," a series of shepherd tales, one for each of the twelve months of the year, and these he dedicated35 to "Maister Philip Sidney, that noble and vertuous gentleman, most worthy of all titles, both of learning and chevalrie." At once the "new poet" leapt into fame, though nothing could have been in greater contrast than Chaucer's Tales and Spenser's Calendar. The first faithfully pictured life as it was without romance or exaggeration; the second, according to the fashion of the day, was in the form of a masquerade: the heroes and heroines were all shepherds or shepherdesses; everything took place in the country, every one was a rustic36, and the highest praise that could be given to Chaucer was to call him the "god of shepherds." So the Calendar had none of that simplicity37 and truthfulness38 which gave to Chaucer's work its great charm. Shepherds and shepherdesses, when put in all kinds of unnatural39 positions, could not fail to be unreal and artificial, especially when they were made to talk in the language of scholars. But Spenser's strength lay in the melody of his verse, in his sense of beauty and his power over language, and it has been truly said that though he is not the greatest of poets, his poetry is the most poetical40 of all poetry.
Fuller, who wrote on the "Worthies41 of England," tells us that Spenser was presented to Queen Elizabeth, who was so overcome by the beauties of his poem, that she ordered Lord Burleigh to give him a hundred pounds, to which the cautious Treasurer42 objected, saying it was too much. "Then give him what is reason," said the Queen. But it was evident that Burleigh had not a great liking43 for the new poet, probably because he was such a friend of Leicester's, and Spenser saw nothing of the money till he brought it to the Queen's remembrance in a little rhyme. He soon found that he could not live by his poetry, but he had no desire to exist on the favours of Leicester or Sidney, and preferred to earn his own daily bread in some honourable44 and independent way. An opening came unexpectedly. Ireland was causing much anxiety to the crown; one Lord Deputy after another sent from England had failed to restore to it order or good government, and had come home depressed45 and disheartened, if not actually disgraced. In 1579 the Government pressed Lord Grey de Wilton—the "good Lord Grey"—high-minded, religious, and fearless, to undertake the thankless task, and he, from a sense of duty, accepted the office of Lord Deputy. He invited Spenser to come with him, as his secretary, and the offer was at once accepted, though it must have cost the poet something to tear himself away from the centre of life and learning, from the society he so enjoyed, to bury himself in a country regarded as only half civilised, and which at that very time was in open rebellion. He left behind him Merrie England, with all that was pleasant to him, when he went to Ireland, which was then in a most turbulent and rebellious46 condition, and for the time being his writing had to be laid aside for sterner stuff. But all honour to him that he chose work rather than dependence47.
Lord Grey de Wilton did not succeed any better than his predecessors48 had done. Naturally kind-hearted, he nevertheless deemed it his duty to carry out a policy of great severity, and himself almost a Puritan in his religious views, he saw no hope for the distressful49 country until Protestantism reigned50 there. Spenser adopted the same opinions as his master, and pitiless force was the only weapon used in the warfare52. Of course it availed nothing, and Lord Grey was recalled, more or less under a cloud, for he had many enemies at home among those who found him too uncompromisingly straightforward53 and honourable, as well as among those who condemned54 his fanatical severity and his ruthlessly heavy hand. Spenser, who stayed behind in Ireland, always remained loyal to him, and sturdily defended that "most just and honourable personage, whose least virtues, of many most excellent, which abounded55 in his heroical spirit, they were never able to aspire56 to, who with evil tongues did most untruly and maliciously57 backbite58 and slander59 him."
For the next few years the poet held various clerkships and other posts, and at last he became the possessor of Kilcolman Castle, where he lived for some time, devoting his spare hours to the great work he so long had in contemplation, "The Faerie Queene." In 1590 he got permission to return for awhile to England that he might publish that part of his book which he had finished, a permission he owed to Raleigh, who had read much of the work when staying as his guest in Ireland, and who with generous sympathy longed to give to the poet the fame which was so justly his. Thanks to him, too, the Queen listened to some portions of the poem, and was greatly delighted with the many references made to herself. For Spenser had learnt how to flatter gracefully60 in his verse, and had realised that to find favour in the Queen's eyes he would do well
"To lyken her to a crowne of lillies
Upon a virgin61 bryde's adorned62 head,
With roses dight and goolds and daffadillies;
Or like the circlet of a Turtle true
In which alle colours of the rainbow bee.
Or like faire Phebes' garland shining new,
In which alle pure perfection one may see.
But vain it is to think by paragone
Of earthly things, to judge of things Divine."
He had dedicated his book to her, "The most High, Mightie, and Magnificent Empress, renowned63 for Pietie, Virtue25, and alle gracious Government;" and at the end of the dedication64 expressed the humble65 hope that "thus his labours might live with the eternity66 of her fame." Elizabeth smiled graciously on one who added such glory to her court, and gave Spenser a pension of ￡50. "The Faerie Queene" was greeted with a chorus of enthusiastic praise, and the publisher, who in an introduction had begged gentle readers to "graciouslie entertain the new Poet," had no reason to complain of the warm welcome given to him.
Of course, the work was an allegory, a double allegory, so to speak; for besides having a general meaning to his story, he had a special one which referred to living people, such as the Queen, Sir Philip Sidney, Lord Grey, and so on. The whole poem, therefore, is rather complicated, and in great contrast to the well-arranged plots which Chaucer had woven into his stories. The general idea was that in a certain happy country there reigned a great Queen Gloriana, around whose presence had gathered a body of brave and fearless knights67. The queen decided68 to hold a feast for twelve days, and on each day an adventure was to be undertaken by one of these knights for the purpose of righting some wrong, releasing some captive, or succouring some oppressed person. Spenser purposed to tell of these several adventures in twelve books, but only six were finished. Now if in "The Faerie Queene" we attempt to unravel69 the very knotted allegory, we shall soon get into difficulties, for Spenser's greatest gifts did not lie in his power of making a clear story, but in his perfectly70 chosen language, his lofty thoughts, and the never-failing music of his verse. So the wisest plan, I think, is to read the romances for their own beauty without trying to find a hidden meaning in every line, and even so, we shall everywhere discover rich gems71.
It is strange that in spite of all the fame which "The Faerie Queene" gave the poet, it brought him neither wealth nor even work, and he "tourned back to his sheepe" in Ireland. He married, and poured out his joy in an exquisite72 song called "Epithalamion." Besides this, he wrote more books of his great work, many sonnets73 and hymns74, and a treatise75 on Ireland. He was made Sheriff of Cork76, and altogether his worldly affairs prospered77; for Burleigh was dead, and it was Burleigh who had always checked the Queen's generosity78 towards him, "saying a song needed not such liberal payment." Suddenly a fresh and violent rebellion broke out in Ireland. Spenser's castle was attacked and set on fire; his little child was burned to death; and all his valued possessions were destroyed. He came back to London with his wife, homeless, penniless, broken-hearted. Over the next few months a veil is drawn79; how it came to pass that his many friends and admirers knew nothing of his sufferings, or knowing did not raise a hand to help him, remains80 a mystery. This is certain, that he died of grief and for lack of bread in a street near Westminster. After his death, indeed, his friends came to the fore1 once more. The Earl of Essex paid all the expenses of his funeral, which took place in the Abbey. Poets and writers flocked to his grave-side, throwing on to his coffin81 their songs of woe82. We may take it for granted that Shakespeare was among the mourners, and with him were all the brightest spirits of the day. Truly the broken-hearted poet was well honoured on that last event of his life. At some period of his career, probably near the end, he had written a poem on "Change and Mutabilitie." God grant that in those bitter closing days he found the ray of hope he thus did sing of:—
"Then gin I think on that which Nature sayd,
Of that same time when no more Change shall be,
But stedfast rest of all things firmly stayd,
Upon the Pillars of Eternitie,
That is contrayr to Mutabilitie.
For all that moveth does in change delight:
But thenceforth all shall rest eternally
With Him, that is the God of Sabbaoth hight:
O that great Sabbaoth God, grant me that Sabbaoth's sight."
True it is that Spenser, the herald83 of the Elizabethan day, gives to the Poets' Corner the reflected glory of that period, but we can never cease to regret that Shakespeare, its crown and its sun, lies so far away from Westminster. Only the Abbey seems a fitting monument to that great mind, our king of English literature.
"Thou art a monument without a tomb,
And art alive while still thy books doth live,
And we have wits to read, and praise to give."
So wrote Ben Jonson. With that thought, and the fact that, a hundred and twenty years after his death, a memorial to Shakespeare was put up in the Poets' Corner by public subscription84, we must rest content. Ben Jonson himself was buried here, having in his imperious way demanded of the king "eighteen inches of ground in the Abbey," and so he remained in death "a child of Westminster." He had been educated at Westminster School, this turbulent, strong-spirited lad, with Border blood in him, who could never settle down to the trade of a builder, to which he had been apprenticed85, and who was heard of among actors and playwriters. He was the friend of Shakespeare; indeed, it is said that the great man not only warmly praised his first play, "Every Man in his Humour," but acted in it himself at the Globe Theatre. Jonson produced a great number of plays and a still greater number of court masques. He was a master of plot, and everything he wrote was full of force and personality. Such a fiery character as his could hardly fail to lead him into a series of quarrels; but, in spite of this, he was held by his large circle of friends to be "the prince of good fellows," and the words, "O rare Ben Jonson," carved on his tomb by order of Sir John Young, "who, walking here when the grave was covering, gave the fellow eighteenpence to cut it," is an epitaph that came from the hearts of those who loved him and recognised his genius. Francis Beaumont, another Elizabethan playwriter, and the intimate friend of the whole group of dramatists, lies here; as does Michael Drayton, who wrote more than one hundred thousand lines of verse, and who, despite the fact that he was always quarrelling with his booksellers, whom he described as "a company of base knaves86 I scorn to kick," was known among his contemporaries as the "all-loved Drayton." Abraham Cowley, held in his day to be a great poet, had a magnificent funeral and a most flattering epitaph, but though one enthusiastic admirer went so far as to declare that the Great Fire left the Abbey untouched because Fate would that Cowley's tomb should be preserved, his works did not long survive him. Close to him was laid John Dryden, who as a boy had been well whipped by the great Doctor Busby. He says himself that he "endeavoured to write good English," and he produced several plays and some excellent political satires87. He was not a great poet, but he had the knack88 of reasoning well in verse, of choosing apt words, and of writing vigorously. And we must remember that he lived in the days of the later Stuarts, when poets had well-nigh forgotten the sweet music of the Elizabethan age. Near to his tomb stands the bust89 of his bitter enemy, Shadwell, of whom he had written:—
"Shadwell alone of all my sons is he
Who stands confirmed in all stupidity.
The rest to some faint meaning made pretence90,
But Shadwell never deviates91 into sense."
Even so did the Abbey unite these rival poets-laureate.
POETS' CORNER
POETS' CORNER
Another satirist92, Samuel Butler, has a monument, but not a tomb, in the Abbey. He also died in abject93 poverty, and of him these lines were written, which apply to more than one of those commemorated94 in the Poets' Corner:—
"When Butler, needy95 wretch96, was yet alive,
No generous patron would a dinner give.
Behold97 him starved to death and turned to dust,
Presented with a monumental bust.
The poet's fate is here in emblem98 shown:
He asked for bread, and he received a stone."
Thomas May, the historian; Davenant, the Royalist poet-laureate; Sir John Denham, a Royalist versifier, and John Phillips, a devoted99 imitator of Milton, are little more than names to us; but then we must remember that, with few exceptions, neither the poets nor the poetry of that period which ended with the death of William III. have lived on through our literature. With the accession of Anne there came a burst of new life, and the next great name we come to in the Abbey is that of Joseph Addison, the most charming of our prose writers. To find his grave, however, we must leave the Poets' Corner and go to General Monk's vault100 in Henry VII.'s Chapel101. For here, close to his friend Charles Montagu, Lord Keeper, he of "piercing wit, gentle irony102, and sparkling humour," the regular contributor to our two earliest newspapers, the Tattler and the Spectator, was buried. His own words, from an article in the Spectator when it was about twelve days old, best describe both the man and his aims: "It is with much satisfaction that I hear this great city enquiring103 day by day after these my papers, and receiving my morning lectures with a becoming seriousness and attention. My publisher tells me that already three thousand of them are distributed every day, so that if I allow twenty readers to every paper, I may reckon about threescore thousand disciples104 in London and Westminster, who, I hope, will take care to distinguish themselves from the thoughtless herd34 of their ignorant and unattentive brethren. I shall spare no pains to make their instruction agreeable and their diversion useful. For which reason I shall endeavour to enliven morality with wit and to temper wit with morality.... I have resolved to refresh their memories from day to day, till I have recovered them from that desperate state of folly105 and vice106 into which the age is fallen. The mind that lies fallow but a single day sprouts107 up in follies108 that are only to be killed by assiduous culture. It was said of Socrates that he brought philosophy down from heaven to inhabit among men, and I shall be ambitious to have it said of me that I brought philosophy out of closets and libraries, schools and colleges, to dwell in clubs and assemblies, at tea-tables and in coffee-houses." Then, having given his general aim, he goes on to especially commend his paper to all well-regulated families; to those gentlemen of leisure who consider the world a theatre, and desire to form a right judgment109 of those who are the actors on it; and to those "poor souls called the blanks of society, who are altogether unfurnished with ideas, who ask the first men they meet if there is any news stirring, and who know not what to talk about till twelve o'clock in the morning, by which time they are pretty good judges of the weather, and know which way the wind sets;" while finally he appeals to the female world: "I have often thought," he says, "that there has not been sufficient pains taken to find out proper employments and diversions for the fair ones. Their amusements seem contrived110 for them rather as they are women than as they are reasonable creatures. The toilet is their great scene of business, and the right adjusting of their hair the principal employment of their lives. This, I say, is the state of ordinary women, though I know there are multitudes of those that move in an exalted111 sphere of knowledge and virtue, and that join all the beauties of mind to the ornaments112 of dress. I hope to increase the number of those by publishing this daily paper, which I shall always endeavour to make an innocent entertainment, and by that means at least divert the minds of my female readers from far greater trifles."
Faithfully and yet very pleasantly did Addison carry out his scheme. His humour was always kindly113, his good sense was unvarying, his thoughts were always generous and true, and his easy unaffected language completed the charm. Instead of dropping to the level of his readers, he raised them to the much higher level on which he himself stood, and this without dull lecturing or violent denunciations. Religion, duty, love, honour, purity, truth, kindliness114, and public-spiritedness were all real things to him, and he sought to make them everywhere realities too, gilding115 his little moral pills so cleverly, that until they were swallowed no one knew they were pills, and then they left nothing but a sweet taste behind.
"About an age ago," he writes, "it was the fashion in England for every one who would be thought religious to throw as much sanctity as possible into his face. The saint was of a sorrowful countenance116, and generally was eaten up with melancholy117. I do not presume to tax such characters with hypocrisy118, as is done too frequently, that being a vice which, I think, none but He who knows the secrets of men's hearts should pretend to discover in another. But I think they would do well to consider whether such a behaviour does not deter119 men from religion.... In short, those who represent religion in so unamiable a light are like the spies sent out by Moses to make a discovery in the Land of Promise, when by their reports they discouraged the people from entering upon it. Those that show us the joys, the cheerfulness, the good-humour that naturally spring up in this happy state are like the spies bringing along with them clusters of grapes and delicious fruits that so invited their companions into the pleasant country which produced them."
Two of his articles have Westminster Abbey for their subject. On one occasion Addison, as the Spectator, goes there for a walk, and thus describes his feelings:—"I yesterday passed a whole afternoon in the Cloisters120 and the Church ... And I began to consider with myself what innumerable multitudes of people lay confused under the pavement of that ancient cathedral; how men and women, friends and enemies, priests and soldiers, monks and prebendaries were crumbled121 one against the other; how beauty, strength, and youth, with old age, weakness, and deformity, lay undistinguished in the same heap of matter.... Some of the monuments were covered with such extravagant122 epitaphs that, if it were possible for the dead person to be acquainted with them, he would blush at the praises which his friends bestowed123 on him. There were others so excessively modest that they deliver the character of the person departed in Greek or Hebrew so that they are not understood once in a twelvemonth. I found there were poets which had no monuments, and monuments which had no poets.... Sir Cloudesley Shovel124's monument gave me great offence. Instead of the brave, rough English admiral, which was the distinguishing character of that plain gallant125 man, he is represented on his tomb by the figure of a beau, dressed in a long periwig, and reposing126 himself upon velvet127 cushions under a canopy128 of state. The Dutch, whom we are apt to despise for want of genius, show an infinitely129 greater taste.... The monuments of their admirals which have been erected130 at the public expense represent them like themselves, and are adorned with rostral crowns and naval131 ornaments, with beautiful festoons of seaweed, shells, and coral. When I look upon the tombs of the great, every emotion of envy dies in me; when I read the epitaphs of the beautiful, every inordinate133 desire goes out; when I meet with the grief of parents upon a tombstone, my heart melts with compassion134; when I see the tombs of the parents themselves, I consider the vanity of grieving for those that we must quickly follow. When I see kings lying by those who deposed135 them, when I consider rival wits placed side by side, or the holy men that divided the world with their contests and disputes, I reflect with sorrow and astonishment136 on the little competitions, factions137, and debates of mankind. When I read the several dates of the tombs, of some that died yesterday, and some six hundred years ago, I consider that great day when we shall all of us be contemporaries, and make our appearance together."
The next visit Spectator paid to the Abbey was in the company of Sir Roger de Coverley, his own creation, that gentleman of ancient descent, whose "singularities proceeded from his good sense, and were contradictions to the manners of the world only as he thought the world was in the wrong," and who was such a great lover of mankind, with such a mirthful cast in his behaviour, so cheerful, gay, and hearty138, that "his tenants139 grew rich, his servants were satisfied, all young women professed140 love to him, and the young men were glad of his company." The squire141 was now spending one of his frequent visits to London, and informed the Spectator that having read his paper on Westminster Abbey, he should like to go there with him, never having visited the tombs since he read history.
"As we went up the body of the church, the knight12 pointed142 at the trophies143 on one of the new monuments, and cried out, 'A brave man! I warrant him!' Passing afterwards by Sir Cloudesley Shovel, he flung his head that way, and cried, 'Sir Cloudesley Shovel, a very gallant man!' As we stood before Busby's tomb the knight uttered himself again after the same manner. 'Doctor Busby, a great man! He whipped my grandfather; I should have gone to him myself, if I had not been a blockhead. A very great man!' Among several other figures he was very well pleased to see the statesman Cecil upon his knees.... Sir Roger, in the next place, laid his hand upon Edward III.'s sword, and leaning upon the pommel of it gave us the whole history of the Black Prince, concluding that, in Sir Richard Baker's opinion, Edward III. was one of the greatest princes that ever sat upon the English throne. We were then shown Edward the Confessor's tomb, upon which Sir Roger acquainted us that he was the first who touched for the evil, and afterwards Henry IV.'s, upon which he shook his head, and told us there was fine reading in the casualties of that reign51. Our conductor then pointed to that monument where there is the figure of one of our English kings without a head, and upon giving us to know that the head, which was of beaten silver, had been stolen away years before, 'Some Whig, I warrant you!' says Sir Roger. 'You ought to lock your kings up better. They will carry off the body, too, if you don't take care!' The glorious names of Queen Elizabeth and Henry V. gave the knight great opportunities of shining. For my own part, I could not but be pleased to see the knight show such an honest passion for the glory of his country, and such a respectful gratitude144 to the memory of its princes."
Addison died when under fifty years of age, and the story goes that in his last moments he sent for young Lord Warwick, his stepson.
"Dear sir," said the lad, "any commands you may give me, I shall hold most sacred."
"See in what peace a Christian145 can die," answered the older man tenderly.
Years before, in his first letter as Spectator, he had written these honest words, "If I can in any way contribute to the improvement of the country in which I live, I shall leave it, when I am summoned out of it, with the secret satisfaction of thinking that I have not lived in vain." And the knowledge that he had been true to this pure ambition brought him a calm content in that hour when all the things of this life vanished into the dim background.
His funeral in the Abbey has been thus vividly146 described by Tickell, his friend:—
"Can I forget the dismal147 night that gave
My soul's best part for ever to the grave?
How silent did his old companions tread,
By midnight lamps, the mansions148 of the dead.
Through breathing statues, then unheeded things,
Through rows of warriors149 and through walks of kings!
What awe132 did the slow solemn march inspire,
The pealing150 organ and the pausing choir151;
The duties by the lawn-robed prelate paid
And the last words that dust to dust conveyed!
While speechless o'er the closing grave we bend—
Accept those tears, thou dear departed friend!
Oh, gone for ever, take this last adieu,
And sleep in peace next thy loved Montagu."
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fore
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| adv.在前面；adj.先前的；在前部的；n.前部 | |
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interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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vehement
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| adj.感情强烈的；热烈的；(人)有强烈感情的 | |
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fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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monks
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| n.修道士，僧侣( monk的名词复数 ) | |
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apprentice
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apprentices
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| 学徒，徒弟( apprentice的名词复数 ) | |
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quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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heeded
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| v.听某人的劝告，听从( heed的过去式和过去分词 )；变平，使（某物）变平( flatten的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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knightly
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| adj. 骑士般的 adv. 骑士般地 | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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lust
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dread
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espied
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wont
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thicket
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wrecked
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raven
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walnut
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strife
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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25
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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27
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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28
ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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29
lamented
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| adj.被哀悼的，令人遗憾的v.（为…）哀悼，痛哭，悲伤( lament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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30
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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31
ornament
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| v.装饰，美化；n.装饰，装饰物 | |
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32
chivalry
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| n.骑士气概，侠义；（男人）对女人彬彬有礼，献殷勤 | |
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33
pervaded
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| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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34
herd
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| n.兽群，牧群；vt.使集中，把…赶在一起 | |
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35
dedicated
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| adj.一心一意的；献身的；热诚的 | |
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36
rustic
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| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
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37
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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38
truthfulness
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| n. 符合实际 | |
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39
unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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40
poetical
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| adj.似诗人的；诗一般的；韵文的；富有诗意的 | |
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41
worthies
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| 应得某事物( worthy的名词复数 )； 值得做某事； 可尊敬的； 有（某人或事物）的典型特征 | |
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42
treasurer
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| n.司库，财务主管 | |
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43
liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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44
honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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45
depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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46
rebellious
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| adj.造反的，反抗的，难控制的 | |
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47
dependence
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| n.依靠，依赖；信任，信赖；隶属 | |
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48
predecessors
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| n.前任( predecessor的名词复数 )；前辈；（被取代的）原有事物；前身 | |
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49
distressful
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| adj.苦难重重的，不幸的，使苦恼的 | |
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50
reigned
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| vi.当政，统治（reign的过去式形式） | |
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51
reign
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| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
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52
warfare
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| n.战争(状态)；斗争；冲突 | |
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53
straightforward
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| adj.正直的，坦率的；易懂的，简单的 | |
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54
condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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55
abounded
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| v.大量存在，充满，富于( abound的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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56
aspire
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| vi.(to，after)渴望，追求，有志于 | |
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57
maliciously
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| adv.有敌意地 | |
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58
backbite
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| v.背后诽谤 | |
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59
slander
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| n./v.诽谤，污蔑 | |
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60
gracefully
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| ad.大大方方地；优美地 | |
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61
virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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62
adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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63
renowned
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| adj.著名的，有名望的，声誉鹊起的 | |
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64
dedication
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| n.奉献，献身，致力，题献，献辞 | |
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65
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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66
eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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67
knights
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| 骑士； （中古时代的）武士( knight的名词复数 )； 骑士； 爵士； （国际象棋中）马 | |
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68
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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69
unravel
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| v.弄清楚（秘密）；拆开，解开，松开 | |
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70
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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71
gems
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| growth； economy； management； and customer satisfaction 增长 | |
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72
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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73
sonnets
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| n.十四行诗( sonnet的名词复数 ) | |
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74
hymns
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| n.赞美诗，圣歌，颂歌( hymn的名词复数 ) | |
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75
treatise
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| n.专著；(专题)论文 | |
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76
cork
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| n.软木，软木塞 | |
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77
prospered
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| 成功，兴旺( prosper的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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78
generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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79
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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80
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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81
coffin
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| n.棺材，灵柩 | |
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82
woe
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| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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83
herald
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| vt.预示...的来临，预告，宣布，欢迎 | |
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84
subscription
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| n.预订，预订费，亲笔签名，调配法，下标（处方） | |
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85
apprenticed
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| 学徒，徒弟( apprentice的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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86
knaves
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| n.恶棍，无赖( knave的名词复数 )；（纸牌中的）杰克 | |
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87
satires
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| 讽刺，讥讽( satire的名词复数 )； 讽刺作品 | |
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88
knack
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| n.诀窍，做事情的灵巧的，便利的方法 | |
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89
bust
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| vt.打破；vi.爆裂；n.半身像；胸部 | |
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90
pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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91
deviates
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| v.偏离，越轨( deviate的第三人称单数 ) | |
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92
satirist
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| n.讽刺诗作者，讽刺家，爱挖苦别人的人 | |
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93
abject
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| adj.极可怜的，卑屈的 | |
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94
commemorated
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| v.纪念，庆祝( commemorate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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95
needy
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| adj.贫穷的，贫困的，生活艰苦的 | |
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96
wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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97
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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98
emblem
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| n.象征，标志；徽章 | |
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99
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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100
vault
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| n.拱形圆顶，地窖，地下室 | |
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101
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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102
irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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103
enquiring
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| a.爱打听的，显得好奇的 | |
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104
disciples
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| n.信徒( disciple的名词复数 )；门徒；耶稣的信徒；（尤指）耶稣十二门徒之一 | |
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105
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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106
vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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107
sprouts
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| n.新芽，嫩枝( sprout的名词复数 )v.发芽( sprout的第三人称单数 )；抽芽；出现；（使）涌现出 | |
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108
follies
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| 罪恶，时事讽刺剧； 愚蠢，蠢笨，愚蠢的行为、思想或做法( folly的名词复数 ) | |
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109
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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110
contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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111
exalted
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| adj.(地位等)高的，崇高的；尊贵的，高尚的 | |
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112
ornaments
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| n.装饰( ornament的名词复数 )；点缀；装饰品；首饰v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的第三人称单数 ) | |
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113
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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114
kindliness
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| n.厚道，亲切，友好的行为 | |
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115
gilding
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| n.贴金箔，镀金 | |
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116
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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117
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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118
hypocrisy
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| n.伪善，虚伪 | |
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119
deter
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| vt.阻止，使不敢，吓住 | |
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120
cloisters
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| n.（学院、修道院、教堂等建筑的）走廊( cloister的名词复数 )；回廊；修道院的生活；隐居v.隐退，使与世隔绝( cloister的第三人称单数 ) | |
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121
crumbled
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| （把…）弄碎， （使）碎成细屑( crumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 衰落； 坍塌； 损坏 | |
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122
extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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123
bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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124
shovel
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| n.铁锨，铲子，一铲之量；v.铲，铲出 | |
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125
gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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126
reposing
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| v.将（手臂等）靠在某人（某物）上( repose的现在分词 ) | |
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127
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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128
canopy
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| n.天篷，遮篷 | |
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129
infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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130
ERECTED
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| adj. 直立的，竖立的，笔直的 vt. 使 ... 直立，建立 | |
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131
naval
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| adj.海军的，军舰的，船的 | |
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132
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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133
inordinate
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| adj.无节制的；过度的 | |
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134
compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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135
deposed
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| v.罢免( depose的过去式和过去分词 )；（在法庭上）宣誓作证 | |
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136
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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137
factions
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| 组织中的小派别，派系( faction的名词复数 ) | |
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138
hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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139
tenants
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| n.房客( tenant的名词复数 )；佃户；占用者；占有者 | |
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140
professed
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| 公开声称的，伪称的，已立誓信教的 | |
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141
squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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142
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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143
trophies
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| n.（为竞赛获胜者颁发的）奖品( trophy的名词复数 )；奖杯；（尤指狩猎或战争中获得的）纪念品；（用于比赛或赛跑名称）奖 | |
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144
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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145
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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146
vividly
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| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
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147
dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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148
mansions
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| n.宅第，公馆，大厦( mansion的名词复数 ) | |
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149
warriors
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| 武士，勇士，战士( warrior的名词复数 ) | |
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150
pealing
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| v.（使）（钟等）鸣响，（雷等）发出隆隆声( peal的现在分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
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151
choir
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| n.唱诗班，唱诗班的席位，合唱团，舞蹈团；v.合唱 | |
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