#EnglishWriters
Come, come away Or let me go; Must I here stay Because you’re slow, And will continue so;
That hour-glass which there you se… With water fill’d, sirs, credit me… The humour was, as I have read, But lovers’ tears incrystalled. Which, as they drop by drop do pas…
A crystal vial Cupid brought, Which had a juice in it: Of which who drank, he said, no th… Of Love he should admit. I, greedy of the prize, did drink,
Come, Sons of Summer, by whose to… We are the lords of wine and oil: By whose tough labours, and rough… We rip up first, then reap our lan… Crown’d with the ears of corn, now…
When that day comes, whose evening… Unto that watery desolation; Devoutly to thy Closet-gods then… That my wing’d ship may meet no R… Those deities which circum-walk th…
So Good-Luck came, and on my roof… Like noiseless snow, or as the dew… Not all at once, but gently,- as t… Are by the sun-beams, tickled by d…
When I thy parts run o’er, I can’… In any one, the least indecency; But every line and limb diffused t… A fair and unfamiliar excellence; So that the more I look, the more…
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
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
Orpheus he went, as poets tell, To fetch Eurydice from hell; And had her, but it was upon This short, but strict condition; Backward he should not look, while…
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!
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,
Come, sit we under yonder tree, Where merry as the maids we’ll be; And as on primroses we sit, We’ll venture, if we can, at wit; If not, at draw-gloves we will pla…
What will ye, my poor orphans, do, When I must leave the world and y… Who’ll give ye then a sheltering s… Or credit ye, when I am dead? Who’ll let ye by their fire sit,
Three lovely sisters working were, As they were closely set, Of soft and dainty maiden-hair, A curious Armilet. I, smiling, ask’d them what they d…