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O Chryste, it is a grief for me to telle,
How manie a noble erle and valrous knyghte
In fyghtynge for Kynge Harrold noblie fell,
Al sleyne on Hastyng's field in bloudie fyghte.

— Thomas Chatterton

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War

More quotes by Thomas Chatterton

Here take this silver, it maie eathe thie care;
We are Goddes stewards all, nete of oure owne we bare.

How shall we celebrate the day,
When God appeared in mortal clay,
The mark of worldly scorn;
When the Archangel's heavenly Lays,
Attempted the Redeemer's Praise,
And hail'd Salvation's Morn!

Happy (if mortals can be) is the man,
Who, not by priest but Reason, rules his span:
Reason, to its possessor a sure guide,
Reason, a thorn in Revelation’s side.

Almighty Framer of the Skies!
O let our pure devotion rise,
Like Incense in thy Sight!
Wrapt in impenetrable Shade,
The Texture of our Souls were made,
Till thy Command gave Light.

Haste to thie kiste, thie onlie dortoure bedde.
Cale, as the claie whiche will gre on thie hedde,
Is Charitie and Love aminge highe elves;
Knightis and Barons live for pleasure and themselves.

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Attribution

Quote text and notes from Wikiquote: Thomas Chatterton (page history), available under CC BY-SA 4.0. Source quality and labels are our own summary of what Wikiquote records.