He smashed his hand in opening a door for her, and less pain than embarrassment shrieked through him… Concealing both,
Come leave the loathéd stage, And the more loathsome age, Where pride and impudence in facti… Usurp the chair of wit, Indicting and arraigning, every da…
If I freely can discover What would please me in my lover, I would have her fair and witty, Savouring more of court than city; A little proud, but full of pity;
At court I met it, in clothes bra… To be a courtier, and looks grave… To seem a statesman: as I near it… It made me a great face. I asked… ‘A lord,’ it cried, ‘buried in fle…
Do but consider this small dust Here running in the glass, By atoms moved; Could you believe that this The body was
I that have been a lover, and coul… Though not in these, in rhymes n… Since I exscribe your sonnets,… A better lover, and much better po… Nor is my Muse, or I ashamed to o…
Walking, snow falling, it is possi… to focus at various distances in turn on separate flakes, sharpl… the attention at several spatial p… the nearer cold and more uncomfort…
Ere cherries ripe, and strawberrie… Unto the cries of London I’ll add… Ripe statesmen, ripe: they grow in… At six-and-twenty, ripe. You shal… And have him yield no favour, but…
Madame, VVhil’st that, for which all vert… And almost every vice, almightie g… That which, to boote with hell, is… And for it, life, conscience, yea…
I now think Love is rather deaf t… For else it could not be That she, Whom I adore so much, should so s… And cast my love behind.
Fine madam Would-Be, wherefore sh… That love to make so well, a child… The world reputes you barren: but… Your 'pothecary, and his drug says… Is it the pain affrights? That’s…
Let it not your wonder move, Less your laughter, that I love. Though I now write fifty years, I have had, and have, my peers. Poets, though divine, are men;
Epitaphs i WOULDST thou hear what Man can… In a little? Reader, stay. Underneath this stone doth lie As much Beauty as could die:
Who says that Giles and Joan at d… Â Th’ observing neighbors no such… Indeed, poor Giles repents he mar… Â But that his Joan doth too. An… By his free will be in Joan’s com…
Come, my Celia, let us prove, While we can, the sports of love; Time will not be ours forever; He at length our good will sever. Spend not then his gifts in vain.