Thomas Copeland
speaker
365 appearances
1 recordings
1 series
first heard Aug 2026
last heard 3 Aug
Thomas Copeland’s voice in public audio — every appearance, attributed to the second.
Trend
recordings per month · last 12 monthsRecordings per month over the last 12 months — 1 in all, peaking in Aug 2026 with 1.
Appearances
The world's quite me, shall I myself forgive.
Only with pains my pains thus ease it be, that all thy hurts in my heart's rack I read.
I cry thy sighs, my dear, thy tears I bleed.
ninety four grief find the words for thou hast made my brain so dark with misty vapours which arise from out thy heavy mould that in bent eyes can scarce discern the shape of mine own pain do thou then for thou canst do thou complain for my poor soul which now that sickness tries which even to sense sense of itself denies though harbingers of death lodge there his train
or if thy love of plaint yet mine forbears as of a caitiff worthy so to die yet wail thyself and wail with causeful tears that though in wretchedness thy life doth lie yet grows more wretched than thy nature bears by being placed in such a wretch as i ninety five
yet sighs dear sighs indeed true friends you are that do not leave your left friend at the worst but as you with my breast i oft have nursed so grateful now you wait upon my care faint coward joy no longer tarry dare seeing hope yield when this woe strake him first delight protests he is not for the accurst though oft himself my mate in arms he swear
nay sorrow comes with such main rage that he kills his own children tears finding that they by love were made apt to consort with me only true sighs you do not go away thank may you have for such a thankful part thankworthiest yet when you shall break my heart ninety six
thought with good cause thou lik'st so well the night since kind or chance gives both one livery both sadly black both blackly darken'd be night barr'd from sun thou from thy own sunlight silence in both displays his sullen might slow heaviness in both holds one degree that full of doubts thou perplexity
thy tears express night's native moisture right in both amazeful solitariness in night of sprites the ghastly powers to stir in thee or sprites or sprighted ghastliness but but alas night sighed the odds hath fur for that at length yet doth invite some rest thou though still tired yet still doth it detest
ninety seven dian that fain would cheer her friend the night shows her oft at the full her fairest face bringing with her those starry nymphs whose chase from heavenly standing hits each mortal wight but ah poor night in love with phoebus light and endlessly despairing of his grace herself to show no other joy hath place silent and sad in morning weeds doth dight
Even so, alas, a lady, Diane's peer, with choice, delights, and rarest company, would fain drive clouds from out my heavy cheer.
But woe is me, though joy itself were she, she could not show my blind brain ways of joy, while I despair my sun-sight to enjoy.
98
ah bed the field where joy's peace some do see the field where all my thoughts to war be train'd how is thy grace by my strange fortune stain'd how thy lee shores by my sighs storm it be
With sweet, soft shades thou oft invitest me to steal some rest.
But, wretch, I am constrained, spurred with love's spur, though gold and shortly rained with care's hard hand, to turn and toss in thee, while the black horrors of the silent night paint woe's black face so lively to my sight that tedious leisure marks each wrinkled line.
but when a roar leads out phoebus dance mine eyes then only wink for spite perchance that worms should have their son and i want mine ninety nine when far-spent night persuades each mortal eye to whom nor art nor nature granteth light to lay his then mark wanting shafts of sight closed with their quivers in sleep's armoury
with windows ope then most my mind doth lie viewing the shape of darkness and delight takes in that sad hue which with dinward night of his mazed powers keeps perfect harmony
but when birds charm and that sweet air which is morn's messenger with rose enamelled skies calls each wight to salute the flower of bliss in tomb of lids then buried are mine eyes forced by their lord who is ashamed to find such light and sense with such a darkened mind one hundred
o tears no tears but rain from beauty's skies making those lilies and those roses grow which aye most fair now more than most fair show while graceful pity beauty beautifies
Showing 321–340 of 365 · page 17 of 19
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