Who is Richard Lovelace

Richard Lovelace (pronounced /lʌvlɪs/, homophone of "loveless") (9 December 1617 – 1657) was an English poet in the seventeenth century. He was a cavalier poet who fought on behalf of the king during the Civil War. His best known works are "To Althea, from Prison", and "To Lucasta, Going to the Warres".

BiographyEarly life and family Richard Lovelace was born on 9 December 1617. His exact birthplace is unknown, and may have been Woolwich, Kent, or Holland. He was the oldest son of Sir William Lovelace and Anne Barne Lovelace. He had four brothers and three sisters. His father was from a distinguished military and legal family; the Lovelace family owned a considerable amount of property in Kent.

His father, Sir William Lovelace, knt., ...
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Top 10 most used topics by Richard Lovelace

I Love You 67 Love 67 Sun 51 Fire 39 Fate 38 Light 37 Bright 37 World 37 Earth 36 Breath 35

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Comments about Richard Lovelace

  • Anthony1howell: richard lovelace on poetry competitions
  • Atthyword777: revival is an infusion of new spiritual life imparted by the holy spirit to existing parts of christ's body. - richard lovelace
  • Word_water_wine: “concentration on reformation without revival leads to skins without wine; concentration on revival without reformation soon loses the wine for want of skins.” richard lovelace, dynamics of spiritual life
  • Raefchenery: faith in jesus that is not built on the fear of god, upon a deep hunger and thirst after righteousness, is shallow and fruitless. the shallowness of many people who are “saved” may be due to the fact that they have never known themselves to be lost.” richard lovelace
  • Rutharnold: and with it a poem by richard lovelace - soldier, lover, courtier - written from prison in 1642. “stone walls do not a prison make, nor iron bars a cage… if i have freedom in my love, and in my soul am free, angels alone that soar above, enjoy such liberty.”
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ilara: This man is not so intresting

Poem of the day

Alfred Lord Tennyson Poem
In Memoriam A. H. H.: 96. You Say, But With No Touch Of Sco
 by Alfred Lord Tennyson

You say, but with no touch of scorn,
Sweet-hearted, you, whose light-blue eyes
Are tender over drowning flies,
You tell me, doubt is Devil-born.
I know not: one indeed I knew
In many a subtle question versed,
Who touch'd a jarring lyre at first,
But ever strove to make it true:

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