By-gone

I had thought (Sir) to haue held my peace, vntill / You had drawne Oathes from him, not to ſtay: you (Sir) / Charge him too coldly. Tell him, you are ſure / All in Bohemia’s well: this ſatisfaction, / The by-gone-day proclaym’d, ſay this to him, / He’s beat from his beſt ward.

The Regal, or perhaps the hypercritical will have it the Reginal Kennel I am acquainted with in by-gone days, even before Bagshot Heath and its environs were enclosed; […]

[…] as we rode on, we saw gigantic pine, cedar, and hiccory trees, torn up by the roots, and scattered over the surrounding country, by by-gone hurricanes, many of them hundreds of yards from the spot that nurtured their roots—while the gnarled branches lying across our track, scorched black with the lightning, or from long exposure to a burning sun, impeded our advance, and made the journey anything but pleasant.

By-gone Tourist Days

Two centuries of German poetry lived in this old German flower garden, from the crude florilegiums of Baroque lyric to Eichendorff, who in its after-life, while looking back on so much by-gone glory, became its truest expression, as formulated by a new spirit, since poetry is the first and final need of the human soul, for which reality does not suffice.