Francis Douce

Francis Douce (play /ˈds/; 1757 – March 30, 1834) was an English antiquary.

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Biography [link]

Douce was born in London. His father was a clerk in Chancery. After completing his education he entered his father's office, but soon quit it to devote himself to the study of antiquities. He became a prominent member of the Society of Antiquaries, and for a time held the post of keeper of manuscripts in the British Museum, but was compelled to resign it owing to a quarrel with one of the trustees.[1]

In 1807 he published his Illustrations of Shakespeare and Ancient Manners (2 vols. 8vo), which contained some curious information, along with a great deal of trifling criticism and mistaken interpretation. An unfavourable notice of the work in The Edinburgh Review greatly irritated the author, and made him unwilling to venture any further publications. He contributed, however, a considerable number of papers to the Archaeologia and The Gentleman's Magazine. In 1833 he published a Dissertation on the various Designs of the Dance of Death, the substance of which had appeared forty years before. He died on the 30th of March 1834.[1]

By his will he left his printed books, illuminated manuscripts, coins, &c., to the Bodleian Library; his own manuscript works to the British Museum, with directions that the chest containing them should not be opened until 1 January 1900; and his paintings, carvings and miscellaneous antiquities to Sir Samuel Meyrick, who published an account of them, entitled The Doucean Museum.[1]

He left his books and manuscripts to the Bodleian Library. He left his letters to the British Museum.[1][2]

Sources [link]

References [link]

Attribution

External links [link]


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Douce

by: Claude Barzotti

Douce, comme une soirée d'automne en Provence
Comme la brise s'égare quand elle danse
Comme un enfant qui prie en silence.
Belle, à rebâtir la tour de Babelle
A chasser les sales du Sahelle
A me damner à perdre le ciel.
Douce, malgré le feu qui brûle en elle,
Tout au fond de cette chapelle
Où je vais prier chaque nuit.
Belle, à faire pleurer les coeurs de pierre
A me faire préferer l'enfer,
A n'importe quel interdit.
Douce, comme l'Italie à contre saison
Comme une larme tombée d'un violon,
Comme un soir d'été dans l'émotion.
Belle, comme une cathédrale, une église
Comme un air d'opéra qui vous grise
Comme le drapeau d'une Terre Promise.
Retour au refrain (1 fois)
Douce, quand elle fait signe de sa bouche
Les chemins du ciel se couchent
Comme un animal innocent.
Belle, comme un tableau, une aquarelle
Naviguer sur ces pots de miel




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