#EnglishWriters
Here she lies, a pretty bud, Lately made of flesh and blood, Who as soon fell fast asleep As her little eyes did peep. Give her strewings, but not stir
Happily I had a sight Of my dearest dear last night; Make her this day smile on me, And I’ll roses give to thee!
Here lies Jonson with the rest Of the poets; but the best. Reader, would’st thou more have kn… Ask his story, not this stone. That will speak what this can’t te…
Come, Anthea, let us two Go to feast, as others do: Tarts and custards, creams and cak… Are the junkets still at wakes; Unto which the tribes resort,
Let’s live in haste; use pleasures… Could life return, 'twould never l…
Here a solemn fast we keep, While all beauty lies asleep; Hush’d be all things, no noise her… But the toning of a tear; Or a sigh of such as bring
Down with the rosemary, and so Down with the bays and misletoe; Down with the holly, ivy, all Wherewith ye dress’d the Christma… That so the superstitious find
First offer incense; then, thy fie… Shall smile and smell the better b… The spangling dew dredged o’er the… Turn’d all to mell and manna there… Butter of amber, cream, and wine,…
Here, a little child, I stand, Heaving up my either hand: Cold as paddocks though they be, Here I lift them up to thee, For a benison to fall
Ah, my Perilla! dost thou grieve… Me, day by day, to steal away from… Age calls me hence, and my gray ha… And haste away to mine eternal hom… ‘Twill not be long, Perilla, afte…
O years! and age! farewell: Behold I go, Where I do know Infinity to dwell. And these mine eyes shall see
Come pity us, all ye who see Our harps hung on the willow-tree; Come pity us, ye passers-by, Who see or hear poor widows’ cry; Come pity us, and bring your ears
You say I love not, 'cause I do n… Still with your curls, and kiss th… You blame me, too, because I can’… Some sport, to please those babies… By Love’s religion, I must here c…
Man is a watch, wound up at first,… Wound up again; Once down, he’s d… The watch once down, all motions t… The man’s pulse stopt, all passion…
Biancha, let Me pay the debt I owe thee for a kiss Thou lend’st to me; And I to thee